


Whiskey and Orchids

by mia kulpah (nina_monk)



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, And jackasses, Angst and Issues, Atypical Bruce, Bruce and Tony are both alcoholics, Codependency, Dependency, Domestic Violence, Drunkenness, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Science Boyfriends, Triggers, Violent!Bruce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_monk/pseuds/mia%20kulpah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Bruce and Tony learn you can't cheat on your first love and expect to emerge unscathed. But they never saw their addictions as problems until they viewed it through a lover's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father's Son (Bruce)

Bruce shuffled the note cards in his hands and scanned the crowd for the fourth time in five minutes.  The drafty, dank, church basement, large enough for fifty men, a coffee table, and a cheap sound system, held an arctic chill despite it being seventy-five Fahrenheit outside. Additionally, the taint of cigarettes clung to the frayed and stained brown carpet; initially Bruce thought he'd joined a non-smoking group, but the stale smell hinted otherwise. He glanced up at a popping sound - a few of the misfiring fluorescent lights were chugging away, but they'd blow soon. He smirked darkly. The entire atmosphere was reminiscent of an old Bela Lugosi horror film.

Bruce wet his lips and winced at how dried and cracked and peeling they felt; he wished he’d remembered chapstick before leaving the house.

He absently checked the crowd again, looking but not finding. He knew the moment - their moment - had passed. That particular lifetime moved forward while he froze in time, broken and rooted, like a diseased oak. He had wished differently. Sometimes he woke from dreams believing things were different. But it wasn't the truth and he couldn’t return to that place, not without choking on his own metaphorical and literal vomit.

He fucked up. So now he had to live with it.

“Here.” Alan handed him a cup of water and scooted beside him on one of the hall’s bent and dumpster-bound folding chairs.  Bruce was nervous enough to choke on his own tongue, but downed the water so his mouth wouldn’t feel like leaves in winter. He swallowed thickly and some of the tension bled from his shoulders. Nodding his thanks to the older man, Alan offered a patient smile in return. Bruce had only known him for eight days but felt better for it; tall and lanky with an easy grace, the African-American man in his sixties sported a mop of Einstein hair, with a shock of black in the temple - like someone drew through the strands with a permanent marker. Alan was an English professor which probably explained why they got along fairly well.  Well. That, and other reasons.

“Too bad I don’t drink,” Bruce quipped with gallows humor. Joking wasn’t doing so they could joke about such things in this safe zone. He ran a hand through his hair and made a face. His hair was about as long as Alan’s but Bruce's hair was more a loose mess of tangled waves and curls, and a far cry from his past collegiate styles. He looked more like a student than his former students. Bruce ran a shaky hand past the nape of his neck, envisioning a nest of matted hair licks. He needed a haircut, he should’ve shaved—

“You don’t have to do this right now.”

Bruce breathed deep and exhaled a half hitch, half laugh. “No, I do. If I don’t do this now I never will and I don’t want to go back. I can’t.”

He smiled at Bruce reassuringly.  “You know yourself best. If it helps, picture everyone naked.”

“Oh, God no,” Bruce said, laughing. He had an ironic joke to share about that, but he’d save it until he went forward.

“Hey, guys, let’s get started,” Bruce heard, tensing. Alan squeezed his knee reassuringly as Bill (of course his name was Bill) came up and settled the room.

“I know we’re all rip-roaring to go,” Bill said. Bruce wasn’t sure if he liked the short, balding man, despite him being the secretary of the meeting, but he couldn’t judge. Here, they were all the same. “Bruce has decided to take the floor this afternoon. So give him your love.”

“Here goes nothing,” Bruce mumbled as people clapped. He stumbled to his feet  when Alan gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

As Bruce took the podium he forced himself to pretend he was still a physics professor and it was the first day of class. They’re eager juniors, he told himself, and this is their last lecture of the day.  Just kids. And truthfully some were, although most were his age or older. He wanted to make believe he wasn’t alone as well, but that would only lead to darker thoughts.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Ah, um. Hi. Hello. My name is Bruce, and I’m…an alcoholic.”

The room chorused his name back and as corny as that sounded on TV or the movies, it bolstered his courage to continue. “It’s been—“ he checked his watch “—twelve days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes since my last drink.” He got a few chuckles from that. Everyone in the room went by minutes and seconds, not days.

“We all have stories. But I wanted to share mine while I still had the nerve. It’s probably no worse or no better than anyone else but I will say this, I don’t think you could call it boring.”

***

_Four years ago._

He hated conferences. Conferences were corrals, pressing you close to vain cattle and bullshit. Bruce’s roundtable luncheon  had some interesting topic discussions on sustainable fusion reactors in a global economy, but none of it was new. And when Bruce ended up interjecting something it crushed the mood and the table shut down, and he was left fingering his napkin and turning it to shreds.

Sometimes he hated being that much smarter; no one got what he meant.

Dr. Mellinger suddenly nudged Bruce’s shoulder, waking Bruce from his fog. “Take a look at our morning keynote,” he chuckled. “Guess he started at the champagne bar a little early.”

Champagne bar? No one said anything about a champagne bar...Bruce took casual glances around the hotel ballroom but  didn’t see the bar - maybe it was in one of the main floor suites? He’d have to locate it later. 

Though Bruce really didn’t care about their keynote’s shenanigans  he caught his eye anyway. The dark-haired man had a woman beneath  both arms and they draped across his form like Greek slaves. He was listening to whatever tripe they spewed and poured them both generous licks from his champagne bottle before tipping the neck into his own mouth. Bruce watched for a moment because this mystical figure seemed so out of place in a room of introverted headcases.

“Is that--”

“Anthony Stark? Owner of Stark Enterprises?” Mellenger nodded. “He’s a brilliant asshole, I’ll give you that much. Did you catch his keynote? Spectacle, more like.”

Bruce shook his head. Really, he caught most of the speakers he wanted on Thursday and the rest he’d see in a few hours. Saturday was a wash and Sunday was checkout, so it worked for him. He had carefully and meticulously planned his  Saturday schedule.

Mellenger  nervously  caught the eye of the other scientists at the table. “Bohr does Vegas,” he chuckled, licking his lips at his tired little joke. “Can’t you see it?”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, with a tight smile. He accidentally locked eyes on Stark, and Stark saluted him with the bottle before quaffing it.

Bruce swallowed. Really, he had other things on his mind than some hypersexed salesman. “Oh,” he said, drawing back his chair. “Looks like my next session is in a few minutes.” Not really; he had more than an hour, but he wanted to get away. Maybe take a look around the conference center; the idea of a champagne bar was too good to pass up.

He beat a gracious yet hasty exit, and grabbed a conference map on the way out. On a whim he turned back to see if Stark was still with his harem, but the man had already fled.

***

Punctuality was never his weakness. Nor was efficiency, specificity, or meticulousness. People could set their watches to Bruce and he would never disappoint - he kept to his schedules, and apologized profusely if he were more than three minutes late to anything. Even in this, in what he would admit to be his biggest, darkest weakness (one he kept close as cards to his chest) in this he did not falter.

He meditated after his last session, to keep himself calm, ate a light but filling dinner, and watched a bit of the evening news.  After a long, soothing shower he brought out a few of the new books he’d purchased from the book tables and read the first few chapters, highlighting and writing in margins where appropriate. When his leg began an unconscious jiggle he knew the time was close, and he was right when he briefly checked the time on the television: 11:52pm. Nodding and satisfied with himself, Bruce forced his heart rate down. He quietly closed the books, turned off the television (where some late night sports commentators were arguing about the Jets, whether they were bowl bound or not). But Bruce would not rush. He refused to.

After carefully pocketing his glasses in his front pocket he made a quick survey of the room. Then with a deep sigh he double tapped the keycard in his shirt pocket, left his room, turned off the lights, and headed down to the nefarious champagne bar he heard so much about.

The elevator ride down nearly undid him; the expectation of what he was about to do, after three weeks of busyness was nearly enough to send him to the edge then and there, to run and not walk. But he forced a calm on himself that he did not feel. He took deep breaths. He listened to the outdated Muzak telling him love was a feeling. And he did not think about champagne bubbles dancing in his glass, tickling the tip of his tongue, creating giddiness where there was none...his hands were shaking. He jammed them in his pockets.

Bruce couldn’t quite halt his quickened pace when he found Suite 131A. To anyone else, it would appear he was late for a meeting or a rendezvous, perhaps a tryst with a wanton lover. No matter the case he didn’t have enough resolve not to walk at a questionable pace. He began reciting the periodic table backwards in his head. And he took a huge breath before entering the suite. He had to. It would be unseemly of him not to.

The sound of raucous laughter exploded when he swung wide the door - the room was far larger than he expected, and there were more people than he thought there would be at such a late hour; but this was good. This was more than good. The people here had been imbibing since 9, and he would hardly be noticed among them.

Swallowing, Bruce took determined steps to the bar, where a few half-drunk scientists discussed the merits of clones in a post-apocalyptic world. Bruce snorted. Of course the party started when scientists threw out their science fiction street cred.

“Can I help you, sir?” Bruce straightened when the bartender addressed him. He pretended to be casual as he searched over the tops the the various types of champagne. So many...

He gestured at the bottles. “What do you have?”

“Oh, the standards. Korbel Sec, some Brut...”

Bruce smirked. “So no Cristal, eh?”

The bartender chuckled. “For complimentary champagne? Not likely this century.”

His eyebrow quirked. “Complimentary?”

“Until I think you’ve had enough,” he grinned. “Or,” he said gesturing to a table in the far left. It seemed rather crowded, and Bruce couldn’t see beyond the first tier of people. “If you happen to be Tony Stark. Then you can drink as much as you want. Because he tips me twice as much as anyone else.”

Bruce laughed. “Okay, I got it. Okay. Give me the best complimentary champagne you have.”

“You’ve got it.”

Bruce forced himself not to watch him pour. Instead, he rubbed his knuckles and took nervous glances around the room, checking to see if he knew anyone. He didn’t - but then, he didn’t expect he would; he made sure he didn’t make any long term connections. Just in case.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Ah, thanks,” Bruce said with a sigh. He saluted the bartender. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Bruce took a few seconds to savor the aroma, to calm down his beating heart. He sniffed the flute like a connoisseur. He knew his wines after all and he knew this was a cheap one, but it was to be his first congratulatory drink of the evening. He had been good for three full weeks. He deserved this.

He refused to admit that he moaned when the wine burned his lips and palate. He refused to admit it. He downed the glass in two goes, and nodded. He handed his flute to the bartender with puppy eyes. “Fill it up?”

“Sure.” The bartender grinned. “Rough day?”

“Rough three weeks.” Bruce’s eyes followed the bartender’s hands, and he licked his lips as his glass was refilled.

“Then you should stick around here. I won’t let you go dry.”

He grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

And Bruce did stay, and he chatted with the bartender on purpose. Mostly because he became chattier and friendlier after a few, but also because the night was busy and the bartender (who Bruce discovered was named after his great-aunt’s boyfriend, _Quincy),_ was young and by himself and wouldn’t remember how many drinks he poured to a chatty, personable, loopy scientist. But inevitably the alcohol caught up with Bruce, and his words came out a bit slower; more slurred. And Quincy wasn’t so busy that he didn’t catch it.

“Sorry, Doc,” Quincy said when Bruce waggled his glass at him. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight. If I continue serving you, one of us will lose his job - and I don’t think it’ll be you.”

“Aww. I understand, Quince. No worries.” Bruce patted him awkwardly. “You fought bravely. Keep being the watchdog for all us repr...reprobates.”

Quincy laughed. “Nice talking to you, Dr. Banner. Go to bed.”

“Mm,” Bruce sighed, and he saluted Quincy with a half-drunk, Hawkeye Pierce-ish military salute. His walk was a little wobbly, but he wasn’t ridiculously loaded; others at the Stark table looked out or ready to drop. Even the blond Stark had in his hands earlier cradled her head in her hands. Although Bruce could see Stark through some of the throng, he only now paid attention because...well. Stark was indiscriminately sharing his drink. And it was free.

“See ya, Quince,” he waved, and the bartender’s lips set in a small frown when he saw where Bruce headed. Bruce caught it, but didn’t comment. His continual drunk was out of Quincy’s hands, and if he wanted to go beyond it, it wasn’t Quincy’s problem anymore.

One of Stark’s happy throng had slipped out of a chair, and was propping up a wall, so Bruce stole his chair and sat in it leadenly. “Amateur,” he cooed to the passed-out man.

Stark acknowledged Bruce with a simple quirk of his lips. “So now you want to join the party, huh?”

“What?” Bruce’s reaction was a bit slower, but he turned his gaze on this man who sounded a trifle mocking (asshole). “It’s after midnight. I’m legal.”

Stark chuckled and searched for an unused glass. Not finding one he plucked a glass from his lady friend, pointed to it and the champagne, and jiggled them both at Bruce. Bruce grabbed the glass and Stark poured. “You don’t look like a minor to me.”

“Nope. Not what I meant.” Bruce yanked the glass from him when he stopped pouring and began drinking. “I mean I’ve had stuff to do, and I haven’t had a drink in a long while.  Been looking forward to this.”

Stark’s eyes softened but his smirk was anything but soft. Bruce could almost make out the bloodshot eyes behind the sunglasses. “Tony Stark,” Stark said, holding out his hand.

“Dr. Robert Bruce Banner,” Bruce returned. “And I know you, Stark. I’ve heard of you.”

“Tony’s fine, Dr. Banner. Hmm...do I--”

“Bruce,” Bruce interrupted. Tony paused, prompting Bruce to continue. “I go by my middle name. Bruce. Which is also fine.”

Tony’s smile brightened. “Right...right! I remember now. Bruce Banner and his anti-electron collisions. Your work is reportedly unparalleled.”

“So they tell me,” Bruce said, knocking back his drink. He sighed happily and held out his glass again. Tony refilled it.

“You’re a hard man to find, Bruce,” Tony muttered. “I was trying to look you up for a few design ideas I had, but Culver cockblocked me. Wanted to test your theories, ‘cause I had some questions that even you might have trouble answering.”

Bruce’s eyebrow quirked over his glass. “Yeah? Like what. Surprise me.”

And Tony started surprising him. The other man spouted things that Bruce had heard only in rare company, with those fellow scientists who really got him. It pricked his slowed consciousness and he pushed his glass to the side. Even drunk he could follow Tony’s ideas, and he shook his head when Tony brought out one proposal. Taking out a pen, Bruce edited an equation Tony had scribbled on the tablecloth. Tony, suddenly animated, disagreed and added to Bruce’s work...and soon they went at it as if they’d been partners for years, adding and subtracting to the stream, doodling and erasing, swearing and yelling. Oohing and aahing at the results.

“Huh,” Bruce said after a long pause. He took a noisy slurp from his glass while his eyes scanned the rows of scientific brilliance. Tony had been the last to add anything to the lines of code, and it felt like a puzzle. Bruce’s vision was incredibly blurred but he could still make out the important parts and the pieces tickled and teased his hindbrain. After a few minutes he broke into a grin. He put a line through an earlier portion and added a section that would complement and complete the strange stream of numbers and symbols.

“There. Finished.”

“Ah-HA!” Tony poked the table several times and  grinned like a shark. He took off his sunglasses for the first time that evening and peered down with a critical eye. “That. That’s brilliant. And you’re fucked up. I’d love to see what you’d have cookin’ in that brain of yours when you’re sober.”

“This?” Bruce snorted. He tossed his pen on the table. “Child’s play. Fuckin’ child’s play. I could do this shit in my sleep, Shtark...er, Tony.”

Tony snorted and clasped a hand around Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m sure you could.” Even at this point Tony seemed more lucid than Bruce, but the way he held his wrist away from his face told a different tale. “Fuck, it’s three in the morning. I’m givin’ a talk at eight. I’m gonna try soberin’ up  -  you ok?”

“No,” Bruce said honestly. The room was tunneling and he knew standing would do him no favors. He was ready to get to his room, though. If he decided to drink from his own stash, he’d need to be there.

Tony snorted. He stood, and braced himself against the table. “Which floor you on?”

Bruce took time to think about it. “Eight,” he said, then grabbed his keycard from his pocket and checked it blearily. “Yep. Eight.”

The other man smiled, but his smile was less showy and more honest. “That’s my floor. Seriously, it is.”

“I believe you.”

Tony shook his head. “You wouldn’t if you knew me. C’mon, Banner. I’ll help you back.”

Bruce bobbed his head  and took Tony’s proffered hand. He stumbled into him, and Tony made some off-color comment that Bruce snickered at, though he really didn’t hear what Tony said. “That equation,” Bruce muttered as they careened out. They were really helping each other up, but Bruce was the one doing more leaning. “No one gets it.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Tony sort of nodded and put his arm around Bruce’s shoulder. “No one gets me either. Kinda okay, though. As long as you have one person in the world who gets ya, life comes out all right.”

Bruce’s head moved in a semblance of understanding, but he wasn’t listening.

Tony hummed when they went into the elevator while Bruce patently ignored his reflection in the gleaming metal. He was glad he was too drunk to make himself out. “Hey,” Tony said. “You wanna go to my room for a nightcap...or something?”

Bruce understood that bit, though. He shook his head and stumbled until he hit the other side of the elevator with his shoulder. “Nah.” He let a giggle slip past his lips. He felt himself slipping down the elevator wall, but Tony came over and propped him up. Bruce thought Tony just wanted to get into his space, and he shoved the man gracelessly until he was arms length. “Not that kind of a...guy.”

Tony shrugged and checked the numbers on the elevator, and Bruce drunkenly followed his gaze. 6...7... _ping_. The car bounced, and Bruce nearly fell. Tony caught his arm and pulled him out of the elevator.

“Hey, it’s fine. No biggie if you’re not into guys. I like both, so...yeah.”

“There’s another guy?”

Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Man, you really are tanked. No, man. Male and female. Women and men. What’s your room number?”

Bruce waggled a finger in his face. “No hanky-panky.”

Exasperated, Tony let out a long suffering sigh.  “Hanky-panky? You serious? My _mother_ used that word, and I’m forty-one years old. On my honor. I’m not gonna bang you, Banner. I’m dropping you off, is all.”

Bruce sniffed and pulled out his card. “Twenty-six. Eight-Two-Six.”

“Got it. I’m five doors down, on the left.  831.”

Bruce hummed and fell casually against Tony’s shoulder. Tony wasn’t very steady on his own feet, but he let Bruce sidle next to him, propping him as much as he could. When they arrived to Bruce’s room, Bruce stuck out his hand. Tony stared at it. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Stark,” he said with exaggerated slowness.

Tony nibbled his lower lip and then laughed. “What the hell,” he said, shaking Bruce’s hand. He bowed and headed for his own room. “Likewise, Dr. Banner. Hope you remember me fondly tomorrow.”

“Kinda drunk off my ass, so it’s doubtful,” Bruce muttered. It took three tries but he finally got his door to accept his card. “But I’ll try.”

“You do that,” Tony called after him. But Bruce had already slammed his door and gone inside.

Bruce fumbled awkwardly for the light switch and said a vicious swear when he couldn’t locate it. “Fuck it.” He tripped on his suitcase which was okay, because it forced him to face-plant into his bed. Which was fine. He didn’t bother taking off his clothes. He simply allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Tony and Bruce are both alcoholics here they handle their addictions differently and they both have problems and consequences because of their disease. This story isn’t the canon for alcoholism and recovery. Paths are different for everyone, and everyone handles his or her walk differently. But people do stumble, and people fall - and sometimes it takes a lifetime to be fully sober. Sometimes people can quit in a heartbeat. Others not so much.


	2. Noose Around Your Neck (Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony sees Bruce at his worst.

****

“Ohhh _...fuck_ me.”  
  
Tony moaned when his alarm went off. He wasn’t sober enough for this shit and added bonus, he was horny as hell. Least Banner could’ve done was put out last night, but no. Now he had to do this whole Q &A sober and stiff while his head yelled for a transplant.  
  
Only one cure for that.

Tony groped for the whiskey bottle waiting for him on the table, and he brought it to his lips for a quick nip. This would keep him going, and he’d put the rest in his coffee mug because who the hell would know the difference? Plus, he ran better on high octane fuel. Kept the juices running and all that shit.  
  
He turned one bleary eye to the clock, and let out another expletive; he’d make it, as long as he got up now, but he wouldn’t have time to shower or shave. Not that he planned to anyway; he did all his impressing yesterday and today was the post-game reflection that everyone but the diehards skipped. So jeans. T-shirt. Sneakers. And to look classy he’d throw on a jacket. Done deal.  
  
He rubbed a hand down his beard, inhaled deep, and forced himself to a sitting position. Everything swam and stung and he knew he was still drunk, but then he was always a little drunk because he functioned better that way and fuck anyone who told him differently.  
  
His phone rang and he looked over at it, grimacing. He could pick that up. He really should. He really shouldn’t still be afraid of his wife. Ex. Ex-wife, whatever. “Yell-oh,” he called into the phone. He kept his hands busy grabbing a coffee mug he pinched from the exhibit room, and then poured a generous two or three shots in it.  
  
 _“Hey, Tony. You awake?”_  
  
“For you darling, dearest? Always.” He sipped from his mug and licked the stray drops of whiskey from his mustache. “Whatcha got for me, Pep?”  
  
He heard a sigh on the line, a gentle and nearly soundless one but he knew it for what it was. Obviously he messed up somewhere but she was going to let him twist in the wind for a few seconds. Boy, was she good at that.  
  
 _“Tony, did you forget about the Pierson account? I asked you to fax your blueprints to me last week, before you headed to your drunk science wank-off--”_  
  
He tsked at her. “How rude, Pepper. Honestly, you wound me. It’s a legit conference with legit minds who are experts in their field, and it’s the perfect opportunity to flash our company’s goodies.”  
  
 _“You only went for the free drinks bar advertised in the brochure.”_  
  
He took a healthy gulp from his mug. “Your point being--? Listen, Pep. I have a talk in like--” he checked his watch, “--three minutes, and I’m not wearing any pants. Now, as much as I know you like my legs, you can’t exactly see them right now. And as much as I know the other scientists may get a kick out of seeing me ass-nude, it’s not exactly my thing. For most of them. Most aren’t my type. Well maybe one or two.”  
  
He held the phone up to his ear, found his jeans from the day before balled up in a corner, and shook them out.  
  
 _“Fine, go,”_ she sighed, and Tony rolled his eyes at the drama. Yank goes the chain. Nag, nag, nag. One of the reasons why they broke up: ‘Tony, get your feet off the antique. Tony, your workspace is filthy. Tony, you’re a drunk and I can’t function with you--’  
  
Heh. That last one was the dealbreaker.  
  
 _“But I’m not playing around. You agreed I was better suited as a CEO than you because I busted your balls often enough and I’ll nag you sober if you don’t send me the blueprint by 1pm today. Pierson wants it Monday, and I don’t want to stay up all night because you--”_  
  
“Got it, got it,” Tony muttered. He shuffled his legs in his jeans, and checked his closet for a fresh shirt. At least his pits should smell fresher than his ass. “Pep, doll, you’ll have your blueprints. Look, gotta go sweetness. Mwah, mwah, kiss kiss, bang you later.”  
  
He turned off his phone and scowled at it. “Still a nag,” he growled under his breath. Still staring at the phone he began plotting how he could get everything done by 1pm - especially since his talk would probably run until 11, and then there was that noon cocktail brunch. Lot of schmoozing and boozing there.  
  
Tony went for his mug again and made a face. He’d unconsciously finished what he had. Happened so often he didn’t bother worrying about it. Just happened he usually thought and drank at the same time, and the deeper the thoughts the more he boozed.  
  
Simple. No biggie.  
  
He rushed on a shirt and jacket and jammed on his Converses without socks. As an afterthought he refilled his coffee mug with the dregs from the Glenfiddich bottle, so he wouldn’t get bored.  
  
***  
  
“Mr. Stark?”  
  
He really should’ve thought about that last question a little better. He chuckled silently to himself; he was getting as bad as Pepper with all that “should’ve/would’ve” crap. Still...what he said might be considered a small PR nightmare for Stark Enterprises. People didn’t quote conferences in the press, did they? Meh. Whatever.  
  
“Mr. Stark--”  
  
“Sorry. Hank. Henry? Yeah. Hey. Dr. Brewster over there holds the mistaken belief that Hammer Industries will be the last word in military tech since Stark Enterprises changed its focus under CEO Virginia Potts to focus on clean energy options. I categorically disagree. You have,” he held out one palm, “the known restructuring of HI due to a few well-timed lawsuits--” thanks, Pepper,  he thought while holding out his other hand “--versus Stark Enterprises while, not overtly involved in active offensive weaponry is in the enviable position of renewable, defensive weaponry that also, also, gentlemen and ladies, has the capabilities of biodegradability for you hippie lovers out there. It will be the wave of the future. You can quote me on that because I’m never wrong.”  
  
And Tony really had no idea if that went over their heads or not, because Pepper’s ways damn well nearly went over his. But it just had to sound good for these eggheads. They came to hear other things but the conversation turned to the new direction of the company under Pepper, and he had to explain that he wholeheartedly agreed with it. Although, in hindsight, he may have come off a tad too bitter when they questioned him about his divorce, and his tongue may have overclocked at 500 degrees Kelvin and spewed something about getting a percentage back on his marriage investment, but it wasn’t too damaging. He didn’t think it was, anyway. He and Pepper amicably agreed in the split that she take over the CEO duties, while he could be as inventive and irresponsible as he wanted as long as he didn’t bring down the company namesake. The rest he hadn’t cared about, and he stormed from the bargaining table while his lawyers yelled at him. “Do whatever you want,” he told Pepper. He’d been angry at the time and got stumbling drunk for a few weeks until the problem took care of itself. Win-win. She got the company, because she was good at what she did. He got to play, which is what he wanted to do all along. Maybe he missed the business world, a little. But he didn’t have time for it, really. Too much shit in his head.  
  
So he and Pepper agreed on the new vision of Stark Enterprises after...Tony shook his head and frowned at his mug. Empty, goddammit, and it had been empty for too long.  
  
“Guys, c’mon. There’s nothing more to see here. You’ve heard from the so-called experts, and you’ve heard from me, the expert of experts. Who’re you gonna believe, huh? I say we take out our aggression at the brunch table. It’s 11:40 something, and I’m thirsty.” He stood, and a few of the crowd chuckled nervously as he shouldered his way out, but the rest took that as their cue to disperse. The moderator looked stunned but quickly recovered and brought the discussion to a semi-orderly close, but Tony was already out of that loony bin, searching for a mimosa with his name plastered on it.  
  
***  
  
Thing was, Tony knew perfectly well who and what he was and he had no illusions about it. He played hard and stayed hard. He had a fucking pacemaker for a heart to correct a previously undiscovered heart defect that worsened after adulthood (a few other reasons for the pacemaker existed, but he didn’t like thinking about that bit), and he drank like a fish. He was a lush, sure, he admitted it. He drank all day, every day, but never let it affect his productivity. He kept up with Pepper’s nagging and his deadlines because he wrote an awesome program that followed him everywhere he went. He was fucking plugged into every goddamn satellite on Earth, and there wasn’t one move he didn’t make that his programs didn’t follow. His backups had backups and his schedules had schedules. He was never lost, never missing. Invincible.  
  
Goddamn invincible and with a heart of iron.  
  
So fuck the naysayers. So what if he partied too much? Live free die hard and all that shit.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark?”  
  
Tony had found a nice cozy table in a quiet corner and had his feet propped up on another chair. He slid his sunglasses over his nose and took a slow sip from his rather tasty frozen drink. Which went delightfully with the three or four mimosas in his bloodstream.  “Are you a lawyer?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He wrinkled his nose. “Paparazzi?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Tony glared at the kid from head to toe. “Who the hell are you?”  
  
The kid brought out an honest to god autograph book. Or that’s what Tony thought it was in the beginning, until the book opened and the kid pointed to some blurry squiggles on a page.  “Did you write this equation?”  
  
Tony leaned forward to survey the work a bit closer, and then ushered a lazy grin. “A colleague and I worked on that last night. Well, really early this morning.” That got him thinking. Banner was probably still sleeping it off. As soon as he finished his drink, he’d probably do the same thing. He didn’t think he had anything else to do, did he?  “How’d you get a copy of it?”  
  
“The bartender was cleaning up for the night and was going to toss the tablecloth, but I saw it - I work in housekeeping. Really, I’m part-timing it here while getting my M.Eng, but I have to make money somehow, right? Um...could I have this?” He smiled shyly. “Or at least your autograph, so I know who to quote in my thesis.”  
  
Tony laughed. “Sure, kid, sure.” He retrieved his own pen from his pocket (because no, he wasn’t touching anyone else’s pen thank you) and scribbled across with a larger than life signature. Tony memorized the equation already, so he wasn’t really concerned with copying it down. He had a memory like that.  
  
“Is your colleague around as well? I’d like to get his signature too, if possible.”  
  
“No idea,” Tony said honestly. “He may be around for dinner, but I couldn’t tell you where he is right now. And what’s your name, in case I have to sue you for using my work without my permission?”  
  
The kid gulped, and Tony smirked. “Just kidding, I won’t sue. But no, seriously. Don’t use our work without asking.” Tony snapped his fingers at him impatiently. “And I’m asking again, so keep up. You are...?”  
  
“Uh, Alleyne, sir.” Tony watched the lump in Alleyne’s throat bob, and he nodded, comfortable that the fear of God was suitably placed. “David Alleyne.”  
  
“Good to know, David Alleyne. Good luck in grad school, and hopefully you’ll learn a thing or two about not stealing work and shit. But yeah, knock yourself out, give credit where credit’s due, don’t do drugs, yada, yada, yada.”  
  
“Yes, sir. Uh..thank you - um--”  
  
Tony waved him off. “I’ll find you later, with my so-called colleague. Go. Vamoose until then.”  
  
Alleyne was an obedient little squirt, Tony thought as the kid scampered off. He’d give him that much. Sighing Tony stomped dramatically to his feet and was proud that he barely swayed. No interruptions, no issues, no nothing. Just the way he liked it.  
  
Except he felt like bugging someone else. He wanted to bug Banner, just for grins. The guy’s massive brain needed to be taken down a peg, and torturing a hangover was just how Tony liked doing things.  
  
***  
  
He covered a yawn with a fist then whistled tunelessly through his teeth, hopping and strutting to a soundtrack in his own head. He made a sharp turn down the hallway and counted down. “820...22--”  
  
A blood curdling screech followed by a litany of garbled curses stopped Tony in mid-hop.  “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Who’s choking Godzilla?”  
  
Another scream. Followed by the sound of breaking glass.  
  
Tony’s eyes widened. He should call security. That would be best.  
  
Tony jumped when a _whump_ shook the floor, as if a dresser or another piece of furniture had been thrown or tossed to the ground. Like someone _physically picked_ _up_ the motherfucker and _threw_ it--  
  
“Uh, Bruce--?” Tony walked tentatively forward, emboldened by the alcohol in his system, but the noises sounded way, way too close to Dr. Banner’s room. He blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. “Bruce, man, are you--”  
  
“ _FUCK_ YOU!” Another roar. And this time Tony stumbled and back-slammed into the door across from Banner’s room. A lamp or something fragile and made of ceramic or glass crashed against a wall inside 826.  
  
“Ho-lee fuck,” Tony murmured, clutching his chest. He gulped down the equivalent of an oxygen tank but it didn’t slow his adrenaline. It sounded like a fucking mountain lion was in there with Bruce. Or Bruce was fucking one.  
  
This was _stupid_ , stupid. He should leave, get the hell out, go somewhere else.  
  
“Bruce, buddy,” Tony singsonged. “Brucie....What’re you doing in there--?”  
  
Screams. Curses. Crashes.  
  
“I’m a goddamn idiot,” Tony murmured to himself. He looked at the lock on Bruce’s door and his hands shook as he took out his phone and his phone’s card reader attachment. After a few quick seconds that felt like hours Tony downloaded the specs and firmware to the electronic lock, hacked the hotel’s room database, and swiped his own room key against the card reader. Within a few minutes he held a newly minted, all-access room key pass.  
  
He wasn’t sure if it would work, but at this point his only other option would be contacting security...but also at this point he would be guilty of a B&E or a felony, which he did not need in addition to three DUIs. He ran the card through Bruce’s lock, waited as the light on the door changed from red, to green, and then he took a shaky breath.  
  
“Bruce, man. Calm down, okay?” He spoke into the jamb. “ I’m...coming in. Why, I have no fucking clue. But just...just don’t kill me.”  
  
He put his hand on the door handle, and--  
  
“ _GRAAARR_ \--”  
  
Tony jerked back. Holy Jesus fuck, this was the weirdest thing he had ever heard in his fucking life and that was saying a hell of a lot. Still, he always had been too curious for his own good. Always too curious for his own good. He put a trembling hand back on the handle and slowly opened it, then stepped inside.  
  
“I WILL _FUCK_ YOUR SHIT _UP_ _!”_  
  
“Shit--!” Tony ducked just fast enough to avoid a coffee maker coming at his head at speeds he didn’t think humanly possible. “Banner! Jesus _fuck_ _,_ what the hell’s your _problem_?”  
  
Tony looked up from the floor (because yes, the safest place was on his hands and knees right now) and saw the man in question on the top of his bed, towering like some nine-foot giant. Spittle and possibly froth teased the corners of Banner’s lips and the man’s chest roiled and coiled with deep, huffing. snuffling breaths as if he were some kind of fucking mutant gorilla king.  King-fucking-Kong’s angry brother.  
  
Bruce’s fists clenched and released, and oh God was Tony not in the best position for this. Not only was the man was playing top-of-the-mountain on his skewed mattress...he was as nude as the day he was born. Which Tony had to blink at because Bruce was very easy on the eyes, but Christ he barely looked human right now. The rage in the other man’s eyes could burn holes through concrete.  
  
Tony made a small move from the floor and Bruce - Bruce fucking _growled_ at him. “Jesus, man,” Tony stuttered softly. He braved a brief glance around the hotel room and saw nothing but clutter and chaos.  Chairs upended and split, broken bottles and glass everything everywhere, cords ripped from the wall with the fucking faceplate still attached, paper turned to confetti - and Tony hissed and jerked back as his palm pressed into a pile of shards from a wine bottle. He shook his hand while a bloom of red pulsed near his wrist, and sighed. Collapsing against the door and sucking his bleeding thumb, Tony wondering what the hell he got himself into. He was stuck now, he guessed. What the fucking fuck.  
  
His eyes flitted up, and Banner grimaced back. Tony decided to stay very, very still because either Banner was going to calm down or he would lunge for his neck. Tony was normally an atheist but he prayed fervently it was the former.  
  
“FAAAAACK YOUUU!”  
  
Tony swallowed. “Not without lube,” he whispered, eyes wide. Yeah, he made a fucking joke. He did that when he felt threatened.  
  
And maybe that joke worked, a little. Maybe, because a quirky half-smirk suddenly pinked Bruce’s lips, and the man grunted, and came down from his mattress mountain. He nodded to Tony as if an agreement were reached. Then the second weirdest thing Tony ever experienced happened: Banner stiffened and his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed back on the mattress in a deep, snuffling snore.  
  
Tony gaped at him and waited a good five minutes before moving or speaking again. “Uh...Fuck just happened...?” He blinked several times and screwed his eyes tight as he came to the ridiculous, and only possible conclusion.  “Were you---Jesus, Banner, you...are you fucking _asleep_ right now?”  
  
Sleepwalking was one thing, but this--this sleep destruction/sociopath thing wasn’t anything Tony had heard of or seen before so of course he couldn’t help getting up and tentatively coming around to see it up close. Deep, hulking snores exited Banner’s lips and Tony glanced around his bed. Even the bed wasn’t safe from Banner’s wrath, apparently; Tony swore he saw teeth indentations in the mattress. Tony poked Bruce. Bruce snuffled, but didn’t move. He poked him again. Banner muttered something and turned on his side and continued to snore.  
  
“I’ll be damned,” Tony snorted. “The fuckhead’s actually KO’d.”  
  
Feeling brave, Tony noted the heavy smell of wine permeating the room and deduced Banner had himself a bit of an orgy with the room. “Ah, called it,” Tony muttered, gesturing to an overturned oak desk. Apparently the sound of the aforementioned _whump_. He glanced at another corner and found two bottles of chardonnay, one barely drunk and an empty twin on its side.  
  
“When in Rome,” Tony sighed. He grabbed the opened bottle and took a swig, and stretched out on the bed. He wanted to talk to the man when he finally woke up because this was gonna be one hell of a story. But he definitely didn’t want to be sober because this shit was too funny and there was no way he’d understand it all unless he was drunker than he was now.  
  
***  
  
The sound of a dying cow roused Tony. Tony made a strangled noise in his throat and pulled the empty wine bottle from his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut a few times, trying to backtrack where he was and what happened, and where, and--  
  
“Wha...oh, _hell_ _.”_  
  
\--oh, yeah. Dr. Banner’s tantrum. “The sleeper awakes,” Tony said in all good humor. He plastered a smile on his face as the man beside him awkwardly stirred. “Good afternoon, sunshine. From what I can tell it’s a balmy eighty degrees outside, and the chance of rain is 60 percent, with a higher chance of finding out how fucked up you were in three...two--”  
  
The stirring beside him halted with cold realization. “Online yet? C’mon, Banner, reboot those synapses.”  
  
Bruce jerked around, eyes squinting up at Tony. At the same time Bruce recognized he was also very, very nude and he scrambled to find a sheet to cover himself.  
  
“How the hell...what...what?”  
  
Tony smirked a little and began playing around with his phone. Ah, shit, right. Pepper’s blueprints. It was nearly four  and yep. Seven missed calls. He wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t his best work but he sent off what he had. It would do in a pinch and Pierson would never know the difference.  
  
He tapped the phone keys with a flourish, and rounded on Banner who stared as if the light was too bright.  “Why are you here?” Banner croaked. “How’d you get into my room?”  
  
“You mean your war zone? Have you looked around yet?”  
  
Bruce dropped his head in his hands and sighed heavily. “Don’t need to. It’s trashed, isn’t it?”  
  
Tony laughed. “I compared you to King Kong and Godzilla. I think you’re their illegitimate love child.  I was coming down the hallway while you were tearing up the place, and hacked my way in. Seriously, you need a new hobby. Interior design? Not so much.”  
  
“It’s not funny, Stark.” Bruce closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He kept his eyes shut and softly banged his head against the wall. “I don’t even remember doing this shit. It’s like a switch goes off in my head.”  
  
“Well, you were pretty damn drunk. And at the look of things it looks like you kept up the party after I dropped you off.”  
  
Bruce cracked open one eye and blearily peered at him. “I’m surprised he let you get that close.”

  
That brought Tony up short. “ ‘He?’ Hate to break it to you, Banner, after you’ve broken just about everything else in here, but that ‘he’ is you. And you’re fucking hella scary, big guy.”  
  
Bruce slowly shook his head, wincing. “This...isn’t me. I mean it is. It’s my body, I guess, but...” Bruce gestured absently. “I get these...blackouts, sometimes. And he comes out. All anger and rage and destruction, and I try to be in a safe place or away from people when it happens. I try.”  
  
Tony watched Bruce swallow awkwardly. He knew there was a bigger story behind it but now wasn’t the time to press for information.  “Well,” Tony said after a beat. He shook his head at the litter surrounding Bruce’s bed. “At least let me call in a few favors. I know the owner of the hotel, and he--”  
  
“I can pay it,” Bruce said sharply.  
  
Tony gave him a look. “Brucie, this is at least six-thousand dollars’ worth of trash. Hell, I’d estimate it near ten-thousand. And I fucking know what a college physicist makes and you don’t have that kind of green in your pocket. You can’t afford it. This is chump change for me.”  
  
Bruce shut his eyes and leaned against the wall. “It’s my own problem, Mr. Stark. I can deal.”  
  
“Tony.  It’s Tony. I hate Mr. Stark. Makes me sound like dear old departed Dad.” Tony sniffed and shrugged. “I highly doubt you can afford this much major damage, Bruce. Not to mention the bad PR it’ll give you and Culver.” Pepper was good at his PR nightmares. He could give her a call. Should be safe to call her now.  
  
“If I were you, man, I’d cut back on the booze which is saying something, coming from me. It isn’t doing you any favors.”  
  
Bruce chuckled darkly and Tony felt a chill. “What do you think calms him down, Tony?”  
  
Tony couldn’t think of a pithy response so Bruce stopped talking. Tony returned to his phone and sent off a few texts in the encroaching silence. “I texted Cole Phillips,” he muttered after a few minutes. “Phillips owns this fine establishment. And I wired ten thousand dollars to your hotel bill. Pepper Potts will deal with the aftermath if there is any. She’s used to that shit from me.”  
  
“Don’t,” Bruce muttered, but Tony could tell the fight had gone from him. “I can’t--”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry.” Tony let a smile slip past his lips. “This isn’t a freebie. I like your mind, Dr. Banner. You could say I’m in love with it, if that didn’t sound like a borderline super kink. You were drunk and you came up with the solution to a problem that had me stumped for months, and some kid nearly stole it off us. You’re brilliant, and I’m jealous. So because I can’t stand someone smarter than me, you’re going to do some contract work for Stark Enterprises as community service.”  
  
Bruce opened his bloodshot eyes and Tony noted how very, very cold the room suddenly became. But as quickly as Tony saw the flash in Bruce's eyes the look disappeared, and the other scientist filled his tired lungs to exhale a slow, painful breath.  “It seems I don’t have a choice.”  
  
“Oh, you do. But it’s probably in your best interest if we team up. Banner, I’m not gonna lie. We work well together. You, physicist. Me, engineer. Perfect match. Plus, you can stay in your cozy rat trap on your corner of the world and I can stay in Malibu. That’s what email’s for. And if need be I can pop by every so often so we can do some hands-on stuff.”  
  
Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Or that. But I didn’t go there. You did.”  
  
Bruce snorted and made a face.    
  
“Paperwork is already in process, Bruce.” Tony spun his phone around so Bruce could look, but Bruce had to hold it far away from his face so he could read it.  
  
“Farsighted,” he explained. Bruce paused, then shook his head as if he were about to do the dumbest thing in his life, and then used Tony’s stylus to tap his electronic signature. “My soul is bound to yours, I guess.”  
  
Tony pursed his lips. “Promise. You’ll like it. No surprises, and I’ll answer all questions at the close of the tour.”  
  
“Wish I could’ve seen what I signed. I don’t think you want my Elvis Costello record collection or my first born.”  
  
“Yeah, well, good luck finding your glasses in this mess so you’ll never know, will you? Hey, you hungry? I don’t think I’ve eaten since Thursday.”  
  
Bruce's lip turned. “That’s unhealthy. I ate yesterday, at lunch, and had a decent dinner. Missed breakfast, I think.” His stomach growled loudly.  
  
Tony slapped Bruce's sheet-covered leg. “Get dressed, Brucie. I’m gonna take a quick shower, so meet you downstairs in twenty. There’s this great all-day pancake place nearby and I’m jonesing for blueberry pancakes before my hangover catches up with me.”  
  
“Hm.” Bruce nodded. “Okay. Yeah. I could go for that. But this mess. I need--”  
  
Tony shook his head. “Food, first. Worries, later. Stick with me, kid. You’ll never go hungry again.”  
  
Bruce gave him a funny look but Tony didn’t give it another thought. Something about this, the two of them, sparked an interest in him that he hadn’t felt for a while. Could be good, could be disastrous,  but he wanted it. And that was good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum: A few small Easter eggs in this chapter because I felt like it, and an apology in advance. I have a dark and silly sense of humor and I couldn’t help it, it just came out in this chapter and I’m sorry. Really. No, *really.*


	3. Time We Were Given (Bruce)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical work week for Bruce with not-so-typical breaks in his routines. Also, contains a few familiar guest stars.

  
Bruce flew home on the Sunday evening/Monday morning red-eye, donning tinted glasses coupled with a shitty hangover.  While waiting for his flight he slunk into an airport corner store to purchase more aspirin (after vomiting up the last dose in the men’s room), and he did a double take at the small blurb on a ragmag declaring:  “Bad Boy Stark Trashes Hotel Room (Again).”  
  
“How the hell did they—” Amazed at how fast the gossip mill traveled, Bruce grabbed the paper and frowned as he flipped through it.  At least neither he nor Culver were mentioned. Stark was right, he “fixed” it and in record time but still…Bruce shook his head. He already owed Tony Stark his soul, and now the man had taken his mistakes and made them his own.  
  
Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.  
  
His dark thoughts manifested on the trip home with leg-jiggles and curt responses to airline attendants (because it hurt to dismiss their wretched, rickety drink carts and it hurt to remain so stalwartly stubborn). He hated owing people, even people as rich as Tony Stark. He shouldn’t have lost control. He had to do better.  And he really hoped this new planning idea between them would end quickly because he recognized Tony for what he was: An Achilles heel that Achilles himself would be proud to sport.

 

*   *   *

  
“What are we doing about retention issues in the physics department?”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Bruce muttered under his breath, and the department chair, Erik Selvig, elbowed him hard in the ribs. Bruce glared but didn’t miss Selvig’s hidden grin. No one wanted to talk about retention, and no one more than the physics department. Supposedly their freshmen classes weren’t “easy” enough, and the Dean wanted to make sure their kids didn’t go to city college to finish up their core requirements. But Bruce refused to dumb down anything; if they wanted to learn physics he’d damn well teach them physics, not kindergarten math.  
  
“Problem, Dr. Banner?” Of course Dean Coulson caught his mutter. Those sharp ears missed nothing.  
  
Bruce sighed deeply and wished he had gone back on his strict, no-drinking-at-work rule.  “Of course not, Phil. But if you think dumbing down courses will change retention rates, then I think we’re doing ourselves and the college a huge disservice.  If you’re going to do that you may as well change admission policies. Hell, let the transfer students who aren’t even in good standing enroll, if you’re going that far.”  
  
A few half-aborted chuckles echoed in the small meeting room; that actual idea had been considered but quickly dropped, in favor of Culver’s reputation.  
  
“Thank you for your suggestion, Doctor Banner,”  Phil Coulson said smoothly, and despite the casual tone in the man’s voice Bruce heard a huge “however” coming. “It’s the fourth week of the term; how’s your freshman class coming along?”  
  
Bruce’s lips thinned and he bit back an expletive. Dean Coulson knew exactly how it was going, and he knew just how much Bruce hated teaching underclassmen. But it had been a trade-off for his sabbatical. Coulson agreed Bruce could take his sabbatical for a full year instead of six months if A) he taught freshman physics until then and B) Coulson rubber stamped a pre-agreed upon “scholarly pursuit” during his sabbatical. Which in so many uncertain terms meant Coulson would get Selvig to set him up with a government research proposal, and Culver would truss Bruce up as the carrot to their donkey show. It was going to be an insufferable, painfully boring, and cringingly horrific year that made teaching the freshmen a vacation. But Bruce would do it. He always said yes.  
  
Into the fire from the frying pan.  
  
“They’re fine,” Bruce said evenly. But the entire room knew he was lying. “Great bunch of kids who I just love re-teaching high school physics to.”  
  
“Careful, Dr. Banner. Your sarcasm is showing.” Everyone chuckled - if nothing else, it was good they had a decent Dean with a sense of humor, even though he was a pain in Bruce’s backside. “Try to keep them learning and enrolled, that’s all I ask. I know it’s not always easy, but do your best.  
  
“Anyway. How was the conference?”  
  
And that, at least, Bruce felt comfortable bullshitting. He’d practiced what he would present and kept it all very neutral, elaborating only on the actual seminars and the possible collaborations with other scientists in their respective fields. His eyes flickered to Coulson briefly; he’d have to tell him, or Erik, about Tony eventually, since technically he would also be “working” for Stark Industries and it could cause a conflict of interest. But he would. Later.  
  
As he was wrapping up his talk his phone suddenly went off, blasting a song from The Motorcycle Diaries soundtrack. “Uh, sorry…” Bruce scrambled to turn it off, saw it was Tony calling, and made an executive decision. “Sorry, sorry—I ah, I really need to take this.”  
  
Phil Coulson’s lip barely registered a frown, but he nodded. “No matter. Your presentation was the last on the docket, and unless you have anything else to add, we can wrap it up.”  
  
Bruce nodded and headed to the exit with his phone to his ear. Thank God he remembered to turn on his phone that morning so he wouldn’t have to die another meeting death. Even better, he didn’t need to begin the conversation; Tony was already going a mile a minute as soon as he answered.  
  
 _“Banner, I have this idea in my hands and you’ll flip when you see it. You’ll do handstands.”_  
  
“What, you can’t email it to me?”  
  
 _“The intro, sure. I can send that over. But not the data. Too many terabytes. Once you get the proposal we’ll discuss it, but it won’t make much sense unless I show you so we need to sync up. You have the capabilities at Culver, I know. Clear out your schedule for a few days, and I’ll come by. We’ll chat. Thursday the 22nd.”_  
  
“Tony, I can’t just—”  
  
 _“Thursday, Banner. I’ll meet you at your office at 4-ish.”_  
  
The phone died, and Bruce knew he was doomed. Sure he could have returned the call and unequivocally argued and put down his foot like a toddler but what was the point? Apart from the owing, Bruce had to admit Tony Stark nudged him. Intrigued him. And there was far more to it than Bruce wanted to admit,  because Stark had seen him when he snapped. He saw, and was not afraid. Well, afraid enough, but not so afraid that he didn’t fear it. And…well. Best not to follow that train of thought.  
  
He sighed and headed back to his office; maybe he could grab a quick meal before his one o’clock lecture. While he strolled the quad and took in the autumn chill, his mind drifted to Tony again, and how the man was like a cold beverage to a parched throat. Bruce _needed_ more easy and palatable friends, he knew this. Sure, occasionally he sat with the redheaded linguistics professor eating near the research building, and he was fair acquaintances with Dr. Selvig and Associate Professor Donald ”Thor” Blake (and if anyone mimicked a viking of old, it was Don).  Every three months or so he, Selvig and Blake would rent a weekend cabin in the boonies and drink themselves sick on microbrews, and make fun of junk science or aliens or whatever their beer-addled minds deduced.  
  
So he had friends, or at those he would count within his circle of confidants.  
  
But Tony…Tony was an altogether different breed and Bruce was having difficulty quantifying him. Tony wasn’t an academic, he was a businessman and an invasive, showy one at that. On the other hand, he was also a visionary.  A modern day sharp-dressed, sharp-toothed Tesla with a predilection for anything walking and yes Bruce knew all about Tony’s prowess on and off the field and yes  he would be dead not to feel something.  
  
Bruce took a deep lungful of air, letting the bite of Fall bring cold clarity to his thoughts, settling them to conclusion like a fine layer of snow. His hand shook as he yanked back the door of the building housing his office. Yes, he understood now. After meeting Tony, Bruce had conclusive evidence, dangerous evidence, that he was the moth to Tony’s fire. Or rather…he was a moth with a water canon, and Tony’s flame consisted of naphthalene vapor.

 

*   *   *

  
“Doctor?”  
  
Bruce rubbed his temples, stilling a cluster headache. He also forgot just how boneheaded freshmen classes, and by proxy freshmen, could be.  At least it was after three now and he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.  
  
“Doctor Banner?” Bruce sighed and turned from the window. God, why hadn’t he gone into environmental biology? At least then he could claim he had to go outside instead of working with students who tried cheating on the easiest tests he gave all year.  
  
He peered over his spectacles and tented his fingers. He edged across his desk and the warped leather chair creaked beneath him. “Mark, I’m not going to talk to your parents, okay? You’re eighteen, you’re an adult, and you should get used to dealing with your own mistakes. So, no. I’m not going to ‘tell’ on you.” He snorted. “But your forearm was covered with my notes. You…God, Mark, you’re not even a good cheat. At least use your phone like everyone else.”  
  
Mark fidgeted and Bruce picked up a weathered stress ball from his desk and peered at it awkwardly, letting the kid squirm a bit more. “So, here we are. What do you think we should we do about it? Do I report you to the Dean and get you kicked out of my class and possibly the university, or should we come up with other alternatives?”  
  
Bruce smirked as Mark slunk deeper in his seat.  
  
“Uhh…I like alternatives?”  
  
Bruce nodded and delicately placed his elbows on his desk. “Alternatives it is. Give me some.”  
  
“I can clean your car.”  
  
Bruce grimaced. “That the best you’ve got?” He gave Mark a ‘gimme’ gesture. “More.”  
  
“Uh…money?”  
  
“Oh, come on.” Bruce huffed and sat back in his chair. “Are you really—? Seriously, don’t insult either of us by pulling that shit. Bribes, Mark? Are you really offering me a bribe now?”  
  
“No! I didn’t mean…” Mark’s shoulders finally hunched, and Bruce saw hints of a hurt kid, one who strove too hard for acceptance. For encouragement. Tried so hard for his parents to love him. Tried—  
  
”Dr. Banner, I’ll do whatever, but I don’t know what you want from me.”  
  
Bruce chewed on his bottom lip and noticed he had unconsciously worried a frayed section of the stress ball and tiny foam crumbs now dotted his desk. “Mark,” he said softer. His eyes remained steady on the stress ball while he continued taking it apart. “Answer me honestly. Do you like physics?”  
  
“No. I hate it.”  
  
Bruce laughed. “Okay, okay. Fair enough. What do you want. What have you always wanted to do but never had the courage to try?”  
  
Mark stayed silent for a while, and Bruce eventually had to look up at him to get him talking again. “I want to be a science fiction writer,” he murmured. “But Dad says—”  
  
“Fuck your Dad,” Bruce interrupted quietly, but winced because it sounded terrible and wrong. “If you have the talent for it you need to do it. Don’t worry about what everyone else is telling you, okay? Just—go with what you want.” Bruce sighed heavily and gave Mark the sincerest, most heartfelt look he could. “I mean it. You’ll die inside if you don’t and you’ll try repeating the same party trick over and over without…yeah. Anyway.”  
  
Bruce took out a registration form and scribbled furiously across it; Coulson was gonna shit a brick, but at least if it worked, they would be retaining a student for Culver.  That was some consolation. “I want you to take this,” he said, tearing off the sheet, “and I want you to give it to Professor Laufeyson in the department of English. He’s…a little quirky, sorta has this whole bygone era shtick and don’t get him started in Old English or Shakespearean English because he’ll quote your ass off. But—” he snatched back the paper when Mark tried grabbing for it and then pinned the kid with a glare.  “If. If he thinks you’re good enough - and he might but you’ll have to prove it to him - he may let you audit his class. If he does, and he has enough good things to say, then I’ll give you a ‘D’ for my course. I won’t let you drop me, but I won’t flunk you.”  
  
“Thank you, thank you! Dr. Banner, I could just—”  
  
Mark was reaching up as if he were about to hug him, and Bruce held up his hands. “Ah, ah! No! No…hugging. Besides you have no clue of the hell you’re in for. Laufeyson is a bigger punishment than I could ever come up with, so you better be decent or you’ll be crying for the next twenty years.”  
  
Bruce handed Mark the paper, and Mark looked…well, giddy, for a lack of a better word. Yuck, Bruce thought with a gentle smirk. “Go on,” he muttered.  “Get out. And never darken my door again.”  
  
Mark ran from his office. “Thanks again, Dr. Banner!”  
  
“You’re welcome. And good luck, you’ll need it.”  
  
Bruce sighed. Damn, Laufeyson was gonna kill him, too.

* * *

  
Bruce got through the day with just (thankfully) a low dull thudding of a headache, then decided on a brief walk to clear his head. There was enough time, and he needed it, almost as much as he needed a drink (damn it to hell, but it had gotten harder to wait out the weeks. He should’ve been able to make it through a few extra days). He caught a glimpse of his favorite linguist taking time to enjoy the weather, and wondered if she might want to eat in for a change, or—  
  
“Ah. The esteemed Doctor Banner.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
Bruce turned around and grinned with muscles in his mouth he didn’t know he had. “Nothing, Dr. Laufeyson. Just remembering something I needed to do. Hey, didn’t expect to see you today. You’re looking…well.”  
  
“Oh, don’t pander to me, Banner.” Bruce’s expression hardened, but only a little. Laufeyson was slick as oil and smooth as a salamander’s ass and oh so tetchy. The gaunt, angled man was the best in his department and was as respected as he was hated. Bruce knew from experience that one never, ever wanted to be on his bad side. “Feel free to call me ‘Lucas,’ since you’ve prostituted yet another of your students to the English department.”  
  
Bruce squinted as the glint of the afternoon sun caught him in the eye. Laufeyson was standing in such a way that the sun barely crested over his dark mane, and Bruce knew he’d stood in that exact spot on purpose. For leverage.  
  
“Mark’s a bit misguided, I agree with you on that,” Bruce said, refusing to break eye contact. A small breeze ruffled a curl on his head. “But I think he deserves a second chance. Still…it’s your call. Be as easy or as hard on him as you want.”  
  
Laufeyson chuckled and held his hands behind his back. He walked around Bruce while sporting a serpentine smile before heading in another direction. “Oh, I intend to. But you owe me, Banner. Remember that.”  
  
Bruce rolled his eyes. Yeah. He owed the whole goddamn world, and Lucas Laufeyson (aka, “Lucky” Laufeyson behind closed doors because his shit neither stank nor stuck) needed to get in line. At Laufeyson’s exit Bruce scanned the quad for “his” instructor but she had already disappeared.

* * *

  
An hour past Tony’s intended arrival Bruce’s cluster headache worsened, but it wasn’t entirely Tony’s fault. Bruce knew he was scrambling for too many people. He always felt like shit if someone forced him from his routines and he should’ve known better. He could say no if he needed to. No one expected him to say no, but he could.  
  
The second reason for his headache was one he grimaced about. He really, really wanted a drink - very specifically the unopened bottle of Revana Cab sitting in the center of his kitchen table - and he hated that feeling, hated the weakness of it. He tried balancing the push, though, for the sake of his other pet monster. Sure he found ways of coordinating the outbreaks with his drinking and he knew he could control him, sometimes, but not always, which sort of lay credence to the outbreak at the conference.  
  
“Come on, Tony,” Bruce muttered, pacing his office. He ran a shaking hand over his jaw because it was five o’clock somewhere but never, never on a Thursday…  
  
Bruce’s door swung back with a loud bang and Bruce jumped in mid-pace. “Whew,” Tony said entering with a dramatic sigh. He was dressed fairly demurely, at least for him, in a dark pinstripe that could satisfy any Dean or Chair on Culver’s campus. “Your campus is huge, did you know that?”  
  
“I had an inkling, yes. Do you know what time it is? I’ve been waiting a fucking hour for you.”  
  
“Calm your jets, Bruce. Traffic was a bitch.” Tony sat on the edge of his desk and was a little too close;  Bruce could could smell a woodsy male cologne intermixed with stale scotch and it made him nervous.  
  
“I reserved the servers until six, but that’s the latest we have the room. If we can’t boot up your nonsense by then—”  
  
Tony balled his fists on his hips. “Did you read nothing I sent you? Banner, you’re a pain in my ass. It’s gonna take forever to get you up to speed. But fortunately—” he grabbed his phone from his lapel pocket and did some tinkering, “—this Cliff’s Notes version should suffice until we can get our hands dirty.”  
  
He threw his phone to Bruce, who bobbled it awkwardly before setting it on his desk. Bruce adjusted his glasses and began scanning, and then his lips parted when the implications of what Tony was trying to do clicked. “Are you telling me,” he said carefully, as if speaking to the deranged, “that you’re trying to create a fully-functional, fully capable AI?”  
  
“It’s not trying it’s doing, if that’s what you’re implying,” Tony said, sounding a bit insulted. He grabbed his phone back and Bruce blinked as the diagrams were ripped from his view. “I’m doing it.”  
  
Skeptical, Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. He sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.  “Computational neuroscience, maybe. I could see it. But you’re a linguist, how? Have you even considered the conflicts between natural language and machine language? What about context and—”  
  
“Semantics, semantics,” Tony grumbled, and Bruce ignored the joke. “Neural networks are growing by leaps and bounds, Banner, and my brain’s a sponge.  You’re into all that quantum shit, it should be right up your buttcrack. Where’s your vision? Your scientific passion of the unknown?”  
  
“It’s in my other suit.” Bruce rolled his eyes. “Tony, it’s not just about programming. It’s the nuances of language, of speech, and having a system that learns and grows by example.” He pointed wildly at the two of them but that only made Tony’s grin widen. “You and I do not have the ability to create a fully functioning,  fully capable AI in ten years, let alone a year or two. You also need a team, Tony, not just one, ornery physicist.”  
  
“Culver has an excellent linguistics program, so I’ve heard,” Tony said, still grinning. “C’mon. You have to know someone who could help a guy out.”  
  
Bruce made a noise deep in his throat, realizing Tony’s ulterior motive. “You just came here so I could hook you up with a linguist.”  
  
Tony shrugged. “The prettier the better.” The billionaire sighed and began observing his fingers. Bruce could physically feel the room shift as Tony began speaking in a voice unaccustomed to humility.  “No…okay, no jokes. Look, there’s more to what I’m saying here, and I admit it I’m not saying it very well. When I said I wanted your help I wasn’t just talking about the AI. I like challenges and I like people who have the balls to challenge me and tell me I’m wrong. I’m sure we could find other projects for you to do but this one is my baby and I’m not letting just anyone play with him. I trust you to get me the people, but I trust you more to set me straight if anything sounds screwy.”  
  
The wheels in Bruce’s mind slowly turned as he understood. “So…you basically want my company.”  
  
Tony sniffed and shrugged and looked away and generally appeared uncomfortable, but Bruce understood - probably more than Tony - how important this was to him. “Sure, if you want to call it that.”  
  
Bruce smirked, then smiled, then flat out belly laughed while Tony appeared affronted. “Well, if you’re gonna be that way about it—”  
  
“Stark,” Bruce interrupted, wiping the laugh tears from his eyes. “I would be honored to be your friend.”  
  
Tony tugged his ear. “You’re an ass.”  
  
“Pot. Kettle.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever. “ Tony hopped off Bruce’s desk and headed for the door, “Come on, I want you to see my program while we still have time.”

* * *

  
“God,” was all Bruce could whisper when the indomitable force that was Tony finished running his experiment.  
  
“I would say I told you so, but y’know. Action-speak, and all that.”  
  
“Tony, this is…”  
  
“Yes, I’m ‘God.’ That’s accurate.”  
  
Bruce ignored him and quietly shook his head, still in a degree of awe. He could admit that his own genius was probably the kind that had no equal, but Tony pushed beyond his own known boundaries.  Tony was a gorgeous, horrific eighth wonder of the world, and Bruce was incredibly jealous of his talent. No one should have been able to do this - or maybe, no one but Tony could have accomplished it.  
  
Tony shut down the holographic screens and Bruce absently stroked his fingers where the display had once interacted with his touch. He vaguely remembered that his mouth was gaping; he slowly shut it. “You’ve patented this, right? Tell me you’ve patented it.”  
  
Tony tucked his phone into his breast pocket, shrugging. “Sixty-seven of ‘em filed, thirty-five pending. And probably a few more patents waiting in the wings once I figure out some of the details. But that’s just the display, Bruce, and an update of some original ideas. The display’s not the hard part.”  
  
Bruce chuckled. “Is anything too hard for God?” His smirk slowly faded, and he met Tony’s childlike expression with a serious one. “Everyone from Apple to Xerox will want this, you know. Not to mention the military. Keep this close, Tony.”  
  
“I know.” Tony looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Everything’s tied up enough in knots and under separate entities so I don’t think anyone’ll piece together what I’m doing. Not unless I get really stupid, or they get really smart. But thanks for the concern. I appreciate it.”  
  
Bruce nodded, fingers still absently playing with empty air. He adjusted his glasses. “It’s enough of a start. To connect this to an AI is pretty damn ambitious, but from what you’ve shown me—” Bruce shrugged. “Maybe it’s improbable, but maybe not.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.” Tony beamed when Bruce’s stomach rumbled.  “Let’s go eat something. I feel like pizza. You feel like pizza? I do. Celebratory pizza with lots of beer, to toast to our new partnership.”  
  
Tony didn’t notice his hesitation, but that was okay. He could work around it. “My car’s still parked in the faculty lot, and I should drop off a few papers at my place. Follow me back, and then we can go out or whatever.”  
  
“Sounds like a plan. Lead on.”  
  
Bruce smiled and left awkwardly as Tony trailed him. He wondered how he survived this long without knowing more about him, because Tony’s template had been pure art. And Bruce admitted that some of his own background research theories included ANNs and their importance when using statistical modeling to predict gamma outcomes. So he justified the partnership; it made sense. Tony had made some incredible strides without a linguist and he had been mostly self-taught. While they walked to their respective cars, Bruce mentioned that he would introduce Tony to his friend in the quad, the renowned Professor Natasha Romanova from linguistics, and Tony made plans to stay through Monday so he could visit with her personally (and he did emphasize the personally, to Bruce’s chagrin).  
  


* * *

  
“Jesus, Banner. How can you stand living this close to college students?” Tony insisted on seeing Bruce’s apartment because he had a quirky belief that all professors lived in student housing. “Man, Banner.  Who knew your secret identity was Batman.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You live in a cave, man. It’s dark, dreary…I’m expecting bite marks tomorrow and a hypersensitivity to light. “  
  
“Ha, ha,” Bruce muttered. He turned on the side light so Tony could see better. He wasn’t ashamed of his apartment but it wasn’t much bigger than an efficiency, and he hadn’t been expecting company; a few textbooks sat in front of his scribbled whiteboard  and a heap of spilled, half-graded assignments and empty wine bottles were scattered before the board, like an offering. Still, Bruce made his home as respectful and as tasteful as he could afford, and he was rather proud of the  bookshelves he stained himself, and the faux Tiffany lamps and fake-Lloyd-Wright furniture style. He dared Tony to say more, but the man seemed sufficiently quelled apart from the initial outburst.  
  
“Cozy,” Tony said, and Bruce decided to take his words as a complement, even as Tony took casual glances at the mini towers of documents and files scattered around his apartment.  
  
“Mm,” Bruce muttered as Tony took his own tour. Bruce hung his jacket up on the peg near the front door and rolled up his sleeves. “Also, I was wrong.”  
  
Tony instantly appeared and Bruce collapsed in his one luxury, the plush easy chair and Ottoman combo, and toed off his shoes with a small groan.  
  
“Did I hear the magic words?” Bruce’s lip turned in a subtle frown when he saw that the other man had raided his fridge and emerged with two longnecks of imported beer. Tony tossed one over to him and Bruce’s frown deepened to a scowl as he caught it.  
  
“Wrong, you said? The great physicist Banner wrong? Say it ain’t so.”  Tony dug in his pocket and pulled out a keyring bottle opener. He unclipped it and threw it over to Bruce; Bruce carefully put it on the table, but did not use it.  
  
“Yeah,” Bruce said quickly. “Just from what you showed me, and with a bit more help, I think you could get a talking prototype in as little as five years. But it would take—”  
  
“Hang on, hang on,” Tony interrupted. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he guzzled his beer and Bruce felt his mouth grow dry as he watched. “Something else is missing here. Something important.”  
  
Bruce tilted his head. “And that would be…?”  
  
Tony gestured at his nearly empty bottle. “You’re not getting your drink on, and that is a crime against nature because beautiful people don’t drink alone. Especially if they’re Tony Stark.”  
  
Bruce’s lip thinned; of course Tony noticed. “I’m not thirsty right now.”  
  
“Liar liar pants on fire. You’re like a dog with a bone. You’re salivating.” Tony returned to the kitchen and Bruce heard the soft clink of newly retrieved bottles.  
  
Bruce shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, suddenly peering at his stocking feet. He knew Tony would grill him to death unless he said something. Better to save himself the trouble and own up to it. “It’s Thursday,” he muttered to his feet.  
  
Tony marched into the room with a scrunched up nose and placed a second bottle by Bruce. He was entirely too close and hovering over him and Bruce wasn’t sure why he felt both uncomfortable and aroused.  
  
The other man reclaimed his bottle opener and started on his second beer. “Come again?”  
  
Bruce breathed deep and peered over his glasses. “It’s Thursday,” he repeated slowly, as if addressing a child. “And I don’t drink on Thursdays. I don’t drink during the workweek.”  
  
Tony stared at him a beat too long and then checked his watch as if confirming  the date. “Are you shitting me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Just Saturdays and Sundays?”  
  
Bruce rolled his lips and rubbed his knuckles. “After 5pm Fridays through Sundays at 6pm. I…ah. I set an alarm.”  
  
Tony blinked, let out a small strangled noise, then released the laugh he’d  purposely held back. “Oh my God, you’re not kidding.”  
  
“Tony.”  
  
“Okay, okay. But…seriously? Is there a court order against you, or something?”  
  
Bruce glared at his feet. “It works, it keeps the other guy in check, and what part of this is so hard for you to grasp?”  
  
“No, hey, who’m I to judge, right?” Tony grabbed the beers from Bruce and Bruce tried, unsuccessfully, to not follow them with his eyes. “It just seems…really hardcore, that’s all. I mean, are you working tomorrow?”  
  
Bruce fidgeted. “Well, not precisely, no. I might, and there’s always the possibility of a last minute meeting, or emails to return, or—”  
  
“Okay, then let me rephrase what I just said.” Tony took out his phone and began typing something, presumably a restaurant locator in his apps. “We’re celebrating our partnership, I’m starving, and I want a pizza. And beer is an awesome compliment to pizza and you’re not working tomorrow, you said so, so we’re having beer and pizza, and I say we stay in to avoid embarrassment. End of discussion.”  
  
“I don’t…” Bruce sighed heavily.  
  
Tony’s eyebrow quirked over his shades and Bruce felt his resolve ebb. Not that he was fighting very hard, anyway. In retrospect, and years later when he had far more clarity, Bruce would say this day was the start of their wax-winged plunge into the sun.  
  
“Fine, all right. Whatever. Give me one.” Tony grinned, popped the top on one of the beers, and handed it to Bruce. Bruce closed his eyes as he sniffed the hops, and he drank deep. And yes, he did sigh and loll his head back in his chair, and he smiled as his headache began clearing.  
  
“Better?” Tony asked.  
  
Bruce nodded, eyes still shut, still upset at the break in his routine. But he could sort of justify it. Special occasion, celebration as Tony said, all that nonsense. He finished off the beer like it was water and motioned for Tony to throw another over.  
  
“Thattaboy.”  
  
“Just hurry up and get the pizza,” Bruce muttered.

* * *

  
  
They were drunk as lords before the pizza even arrived. Tony chose to let the alcohol take him and he tripped to the door when they heard the knock; he flung a bunch of bills at the pizza guy, and then remembered at the last minute to grab the pizza. Bruce laughed and sputtered his wine through his teeth, and ended up dribbling on his shirt. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, and nearly spilled the rest of the bottle as he clumsily brushed at his front. He shrugged and tipped the neck of the beautiful, blessed wine into his mouth - his third bottle - and chugged it. More wine trickled from his chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.  
  
“Fuck. Shoulda had some food first.”  
  
Tony snickered and threw the pizza box to the center of the room.  The lid tilted back and a few of the pieces scattered onto the floor. Tony ogled them, then slowly plopped next to the box and grabbed a slice off the floor. “C’mere, Banner. Eat.” Tony chomped away and spewed pizza bits as he talked. “You’re gonna make yourself sick if you don’t get somethin’ to sop up all that alcohol.”  
  
“Okay, sure. Okay. Uh…” Bruce couldn’t exactly gauge the distance to the floor and ended up falling out of the chair and banging his shoulder against the hardwood when he fell. He began giggling and snorting at nothing, but absently checked to see if he’d spilled any wine from his bottle. He could’ve fallen on the bottle and cut himself, but that mattered less than making sure no drop was spilt.  
  
He let out a wheezy laugh; the bottle was empty. Needn’t have worried.  
  
“C’mon, you wino,” Tony said with a chuckle. “Drag yourself over here an’ eat something.”  
  
Bruce tossed the bottle aside and crawled on all fours to get to their dinner. He nearly fell on top of the box but Tony was quick enough to shove him back. He nearly collapsed backwards. “Here,” Tony sighed. He handed Bruce some pizza and it took a few tries, but Bruce got it in his mouth.  
  
“You’re a mess,” Tony said, laughing.  
  
“Yeah, well…you. You drank all my good beer. You’re the bigger mess.” Bruce blinked at the pizza slice in his hand and decided he didn’t like mushrooms. He picked them off the slice and flung them somewhere. Maybe the floor.  
  
Tony gave him a look over his pizza. “I’ll buy you more. And hey, as long as I can recite the periodic table backwards, I’m still sober.”  
  
Bruce snorted at him. “That’s my trick. You stole that, too.”  
  
“Don’t be a prick,” Tony chided. “Fine, you try it, then.”  
  
“Huh?” Bruce grabbed the last floor-slice and crammed it into his mouth. He knew some of it must’ve smeared on his cheek, but he didn’t care.  
  
“Recite the periodic table backwards.”  
  
Bruce blinked owlishly at him. “ ‘U-something.’  
  
Tony sniggered at him. “U…Do you mean You-You-oh, or You-you-ess?”  
  
“There’s a You-us?”  
  
Tony’s expression sobered a little, but Bruce was too drunk to decipher anything about the glance. “Could be a You-us,” Tony said quietly. Then he shook his head and grabbed a napkin. “Banner, you got pizza sauce all over your mouth and you look like the Joker. C’mere.”  
  
Bruce scooted over, and Tony daubed his mouth. The other man paused for a moment, and Bruce was drunk but not too drunk to know what he was thinking. He had a small moment of clarity and knew this was absolutely the worst path he could take but honestly? He couldn’t make himself care.  Something about Tony clicked for him, for here was someone who understood even the darkest parts and embraced all of it. Bruce couldn’t think of anyone else who matched so perfectly so why not. Why the hell not, and just go for it.  
  
He vaguely remembered heavy hands and beer-scented breath tickling his neck and he remembered turning and their lips mashing clumsily against each other and the pawing off of clothes and stumbling and weaving and aborted laughs as they headed for his bed to begin something new.  
  
And the following day Bruce woke naked, to soreness and bleary, sobering sadness, and a blush of shame dotted his cheeks when he felt Tony’s heavy and bare arm draped across his chest.


	4. Neither Reason Nor Rhyme (Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's weekend with Bruce doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, chapter may trigger unpleasant memories.

“Bruce...Bruce, come on. Just--” Tony sighed and softly bumped his head against the bathroom door. He woke up to an empty bed and a bad headache, two things he really didn’t like in the morning, plus he had to pee like a thoroughbred. But Banner had locked the bathroom door and wasn’t talking to him which was another thing he couldn’t stand.

“Look, if you’re gonna give me the silent treatment, at least tell me why. I don’t think I said anything stupid or did anything wrong because I usually have a memory for those things, even when I’m totally gone. And you seemed to like it as much as I did, so I don’t see what the goddamn _problem_ is.”

The bathroom door swung back and Tony was met with a pointed glare and a fully-dressed (albeit sickly-looking) Bruce. He’d deal with that glare later. Right now he had to pee. 

“Bathroom’s free,” Bruce said icily.

“Finally. I thought you’d never get out of there.”

Bruce made a noise in his throat and stormed out, and then slammed the bedroom door on him. _Whatever_ , Tony thought, going to the bathroom and pissing out the night before.  If Bruce was that naive about sex and the no-strings attached thing, then the man was a lesser scientist than he gave him credit for.  He doubted Bruce would go back on his word for Monday; he didn’t seem the type. But this colder than a witches tit thing was so not Tony’s scene and he needed a shower. So better a shower at his hotel room until Bruce got whatever bug up his butt shat out.

He shook himself after pissing then did a double take when he caught his tired expression in the mirror. Shit, he thought. He looked pretty wrung out, enough that he had no right to judge Bruce's death pallor: Pale, veined, and slight smears of red dotted his cheeks and told a greater story than he appreciated.  Tony frowned and reminded himself to get a facial when he returned to Malibu. As for now, oh, well. Sunglasses hid a litany of sins.

Tony grabbed his pants when he realized Bruce was acting like an idiot (because arguing in the nude - not so much), but the rest of his clothes were in the living room. And since Bruce’s apartment was the size of a teenaged girl’s closet, neither of them could hide from the other for long; they would have to face one another eventually. Tony sighed. He hated awkward morning afters. He really did.

He left the bathroom and cautiously opened the bedroom door, expecting to see something flying towards his head because that was how most of his night liaisons ended. But instead, Bruce was holding a trash bag and picking up all the bottles and pizza detritus from around the room. Tony snorted. Looked like a goddamn frat blew up. He and Bruce seriously tied one on last night - well, he’d say Bruce more than him. That man could seriously _drink_.

“I wonder if A.A. has a 9-1-1 line,” Tony quipped, but Bruce didn’t rise to the bait. Instead the other man bent down, examined a wine bottle cautiously, and slammed it into the trash bag. Tony rubbed a hand down his beard and held back a sigh because he was too tired and too hungover for his shit. He grabbed the rest of his clothes and shoes and began buttoning up his shirt.

“I need to grab a shower anyway, and I have a few things to do. I’m gonna let you blow off whatever this is, and I’ll see you later today. You can sulk all you want, but personally? I think we should talk about what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Bruce snapped. The man’s eyes came up sharply, but then he turned away. Tony could see his cheeks redden. “There’s nothing to talk about. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay, no, you don’t get to pull the PA card with me.” Tony felt his own anger rising and that was such a bad idea on so many levels. Fuck this, he needed a drink. He waved a hand in the air. “I don’t need this, Bruce. I’m not the one running from what happened last night. I’m going out, but expect me to be back here for lunch or dinner, or whatever the next meal is. Fuck, I don’t even know what time it is.”

“1:35,” Bruce said automatically. Tony made a face and ran his tongue over his teeth.

“AM or PM?”

Bruce swore softly and pointed to the window. “The sun’s out. What the hell do you think?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Got the, ‘fuck you’ routine. See you at six. Don’t pretend like you're not around, either.”

He left the apartment and slammed the door behind him but he didn’t really care what Bruce did at that point.

Except he did. A little.

*   *   *

Tony returned to his hotel, took time for a nap and a long, hot shower and changed into a comfortable t-shirt, jeans, and hooded sweatshirt combo. He dry-gulped a few Tylenol and flipped through the hotel TV channels (“E” had a special on him he hadn’t seen before and he tuned in a few minutes before flipping it off with a small chuckle) then decided he was too wired and he needed something major to take the edge off. Bruce’s wine and beer parade was okay, but it didn’t have enough of a kick and he needed a fucking kick. The large flask he brought with him was lonely and needed a playmate.

Besides, he thought, stuffing his flask in his sweatshirt and leaving the hotel. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts for too long. That was an awesomely horrible idea.

He breathed deep when he went outside, enjoying the seasonal chill and the smell of autumn. Too bad he wasn't a runner; he probably would've appreciated it more because the area around Culver University was gorgeous. It was still boring as fuck, but he could appreciate beauty in small doses. Tony was normally too busy but every once in a while he had time for sightseeing when he traveled places. Although Virginia wasn’t exactly high on his places to visit, he could admit the state had its charms. Still. If he was going to stick around with a surly Bruce Banner for the next day and a half, he certainly couldn’t do it sober so thank God he was in Virginia because it was as wet as a state could be.

He rubbed his hands together and hopped into his rental car. Using the GPS and the rating guides on his phone, Tony cruised around until he found an area boasting a few high end liquor stores. He hated stores in seedy barrios or ones with trash or disgusting smells surrounding them; he wasn’t a drunk. Well, he thought, nibbling his cheek. Not a common one, anyway. He was Tony-fucking-Stark, a drunk with _class_.

Tony snorted at himself and dutifully followed his GPS for the one store, the Nirvana of Virginia liquor stores, the one with a five-star rating. Normally Tony went online for his booze and had his stashes sent to Happy’s address. He didn’t trust the media to not make a huge deal of it, and one of those nosy asshole paparazzi most definitely would. ‘Course it looked like Happy was the biggest lush in the world but Happy took it in stride. Good man, that Happy.

Tony caught sight of the store with the infamous perfect rating, and nodded appreciatively when he drove into its lot. Nice neighborhood, no thugs hanging around, no bars on the windows...his kind of place. He parked close enough to the front that he could make a quick exit if he needed to, but he doubted anyone would act like a screaming fangirl or boy out here. The classier neighborhoods tended to frown upon those antics. Go figure.

When he entered, there was no tinkling bell - which he respected. No cameras in the corner, either. Just rows and rows of multicolored liquors tastefully ordered according to product; rum, vodka and gin near the back, whiskey, brandy and bourbon to the left, wines near the front (snobs), specialty liqueurs and niche spirits to the right, and the imported beers somewhere in the middle. Tony grabbed a shopping cart and let his eyes roam. He felt his pacemaker speed up with a small surge of adrenaline but no worries. It was like seeing a gorgeous woman or man sashay past; no shame in enjoying the view.

“Banner’s brews first,” he muttered to himself. He owed the man that much. How much had he personally drunk of Bruce’s stash? Twelve? Fifteen bottles? He didn’t keep track. He did remember that the brew was tasty, and headier than most. Darker than a lager, but not as dark as a stout - probably a medium brew of some kind. He used his phone again to get the ratings on a few, then selected the corresponding brands from the shelves. Tony didn’t care as much for beer but apparently Bruce did. So he’d get him a bunch of imports to choose from.

Tony put the equivalent of a case or two in the cart then hummed a little to himself as he made his way to the whiskey section. This was the gold medal shit, this stuff. Right here. He licked his lips and browsed the top shelf for the best brands, and found a few of his favorites. He grabbed four bottles of the good stuff, and one more for good measure. Not that he needed it all before Monday but he wasn’t about to go empty. Plus, he needed to give Bruce some culture. Man did not live by wine and brews alone.

Sighing, Tony knew he was trying to bribe Bruce and make some kind of peace offering, and the only thing he knew was to find something Bruce liked. “Oh, wine, right,” he thought, snapping his fingers. He began humming as he headed for the snobby section.

“Chardonnay, Cabernet, Merlot, Riesling...” Tony wouldn't call himself a connoisseur, but he wasn’t totally clueless when it came to different wines. Growing up rich and dining at the best places made wine wisdom a necessity; he knew which paired best with meals and knew which vineyards had award-winning seasons. So he knew what he was doing when he looked over the various types and chose a little from column A and a little from column B. He made sure to choose brands on the expensive side; Tony assumed Bruce liked the frou-frou shit more after seeing how fast he downed the Revana - that bottle alone would’ve set the good doc back a pretty penny. Fortunately Tony had a bank account full of pretty pennies, so he could afford to splurge.  Twelve bottles, six white and six red, mixtures of tastes...that would work.

Tony took his cart to the front and his eyes dared the cashier to give him a look, but fortunately all he received was a wide, friendly smile. Hence, the other perk of going to a higher class of boozery - no quirky glances, no tsk-tsks. No, “so where’s the party” quips.

The kid wore a bright, happy name tag to match his smile, and his peppy personality matched his name. "Jeremy" flitted around Tony’s cart with his price gun like a pro. Like a hummingbird around nectar, sweet, sweet nectar.

“Your total is $2,460.75. Will that be cash or charge?”

“Charge,” Tony said with a smirk. That much cash in his pocket was akin to painting a target on his chest. He gave Jeremy his ebony Amex and received not so much as an eye blink. _That’s_ what he liked to see.

“All righty,” Jeremy muttered. “Will you need help getting your purchases to your car, Mr. Stark?”

“Sure, Jeremy. Go for it.”

Jeremy picked up the house phone and seconds later a stock boy came up to meet them at the front. “Mr. Stark would like some help loading his purchases in his car.”

“Of course. Which car is yours, sir?”

With such first class service it was easy to pile all of the goods in the backseat, and Tony tipped both workers - not that he needed to (and Jeremy declined), but money had a voice. And it was a lot easier to tip for good service than to see his name in the papers for his drinking again. Which was totally overblown.

Tony nodded when he checked over their work. Good, they packed the bottles in canvas grocery bags, the kind all those green hippies loved. Which meant Bruce would love ‘em, too. The bags made everything easier to carry and Tony was all about convenience.

While still in the parking lot, Tony plucked his flask from the front pocket of his hoodie and grabbed one of the whiskey bottles from a bag. He checked around carefully - he didn’t need cops or reporters right now - then patiently tipped in enough liquor to fill the twelve-ounce flask. His fingers only shook a little, but he didn’t spill. He’d done this often enough that he was an expert.

Tony took a few minutes to relax and take a few long sips, and he immediately felt better. He drank enough to get loose, but not so much that his vision would be swimming. Nope, he learned his lesson last time.

Well. Maybe he’d have one or two more tastes.

***

The drive back to Bruce’s place was a li-i-ittle precarious, but not half bad.  Tony realized he was thirstier than normal (well, of course he was; beer was like popcorn and he needed steak, dammit) and he _might_ have drained the flask. But then he refilled it, and was now taking much slower sips.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, and he quickly dropped his flask when he realized he turned wide and almost clipped an F-150.

_“Watch where you’re going, asshole!”_

“Learn how to _drive_ , grandma!” Tony shot back. He said another expletive when he retrieved his flask from the passenger side because a few ounces of it soaked the seat cushion. Fuck that guy, Tony thought, taking a quick gulp. He was crazy.

Tony knew his limits and vehemently disagreed that he was too drunk. If he was too drunk he would’ve made himself pull over to take a nap, but he wasn't so fuck him. The road was only a little fuzzy and he could see the white lines for the most part. To be sure he slapped his face a few times to keep alert, and paid closer attention to his GPS so he could turn on time and not accidentally clip guys who drove like _grandmas_ in _giant monster trucks_.

He tapped the GPS for good measure and squinted at the little red line - since when the fuck did they make the print so small on those things? - and it told him he was about ten minutes out. Which was fine. It was getting too late in the afternoon, and even in this podunk place there could be a cop lurking around and he couldn’t afford any more bad publicity for his company since he took the fall for the hotel thing. Pepper would murder him; the stock already went down a few points with that stunt (not that it mattered; he still made them money hand over fist and they had no right to complain).

And truth, he was probably starving his ass off, which also made him drive crazy. He hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and gulping his calories kept him from getting hungry but it probably wasn’t a hot idea.

As an afterthought, Tony switched his flask for his phone and dialed Bruce’s number, to see if the man wanted him to stop off and bring food back.

“C’mon, you mother sulker.” Tony muttered between his teeth when the phone went to voicemail. Yeah, whatever. He’d get the man good and riled when he got back, because Bruce deserved to get a little payback. Fuck, who did he think he was? One fun little tumble, and the man treated it like he’d taken his virginity, or something.

He straightened in his seat as a thought brought him up short. Maybe he _had_. Maybe he really did pop Bruce’s man cherry, and wouldn’t that just suck.

“Aheh. Not as hard as I sucked him last night.” Tony giggled just a bit, but forced himself to stop and think about it soberly. They probably needed to talk, as much as he hated the “t” word.

With the combination of the liquor in his system and thinking about  what he was going to say and well, the _rapture_ he remembered on Bruce’s face when he came, Tony plowed through a stop sign. His reaction time was shit, and she came from nowhere, and thank God she was a good jumper because... _fucking hell_. Tony slammed on the brakes as she flew back, but if she hadn’t seen him coming he would’ve--

Tony swallowed and stilled his shaking hands on the steering wheel as she yelled some incoherent thing and shot her middle digit at him. He waved absently and apologized behind the glass, but didn’t stop to see how she was. He could see Bruce’s apartment from here and yeah, the sooner he got there the better. Maybe he had a little too much drink to drive. So. Good thing he was nearly at Bruce’s place.

 *   *   *

Tony called Bruce twice more but the fucker still refused to pick up his goddamn phone. “Passive aggressive little shit,” Tony muttered before angrily shutting off his phone. He fumbled with a few of the bottles in the back seat and touted two canvas bags of beer and half of the wine to Bruce’s stoop. Fortunately Bruce lived on the first floor because there was no way in hell he’d carry this heavy-ass load up three flights.

He double checked to make sure he had the right door and banged on it with his closed fist. “Bruce, c’mon.  Quit acting like an asshole and open your goddamn door.”

Tony wasn’t normally  patient, but he figured he could be, just this once. To make Bruce upset enough to open the door (Tony’s  assumption, anyway), he sat with his back against the jamb and kept chattering as if Bruce were listening. “So, there was this cute little blond number I ran into, a few blocks from your apartment.” Tony rifled through one of the liquor bags and grabbed a warm beer.  “She gave me the eye, but I don’t think I was her type. She looked a little crazy.”

He dug in his pocket for his bottle opener and continued to talk.

“We shared a few words, she had this special wave for me when I took off...you know how it goes, right?” He took a sip of beer and sighed. “But she was a little young and true, I may chase ‘em young, but I’m no Heff - and hell, she could’ve been one of your students and wouldn’t that have been awkw--”

 _Click_.

“Finally,” Tony muttered when he heard the lock unhitch. He grabbed the bags and shoved his way in, expecting to catch a sneer or hairy eyeball from Bruce.

What he got - and really, was it that much of a surprise after what he saw last night? - was Bruce sitting spread-eagled next to the door, inhaling a bottle of Merlot. And it wasn’t funny, like last night. Right now Bruce was barefoot and semi-comatose, and his shirtfront was soaked in booze and--Tony turned up his nose as he breathed a sharp lungful of a rancid, cheesy smell. Lovely.  _Vomit_. And on the heels of that perfume, the beautiful acrid tang of ammonia and wet dog, aka piss-soaked corduroy.

No wonder Bruce never answered his phone. 

“You’re lucky I really like you,” Tony spat between clenched teeth. He systematically began placing the bottles in the cabinets while he thought about what to do. This was pretty fucking bad. “Bet you started drinking the second I left.” He whirled around with a bottle in his hand and scolded Bruce. “Least you could’ve done was wait. Would’ve been a hell of a lot more fun with me.”

And to be fair Tony wasn’t sure why he felt obligated to help. Maybe because Bruce treated him like a normal person and didn’t act like a pretentious shit. Or maybe it was because he saw Bruce as a fellow outcast.  Or maybe it was Bruce’s brain. Hell if he knew.

But after getting the bottles tucked safely away Tony stood over his new friend, who was now this complete sodden mess of a human being, and he felt a pang. One thing came to Tony’s mind, and it summed it all perfectly: He didn’t like seeing a friend drowning without a lifeline. So he’d be the rope. For as long as their friendship lasted, he’d be the rope.

Bruce was staring into space and struggling with the wine bottle against his lips. “Nah, I think you’ve had enough of that,” Tony sniffed. Bruce growled a little when Tony plucked it from his hands, but Tony waggled his finger at him. “Bad dog. If I’d known you’d piss all over the place I would’ve put down some paper.”

The other man hurled a few garbled, slurred curses at him but nothing made any sense; he was too far gone. Sighing, Tony wrinkled his nose and squatted beside the man.  He shook his head as he very slowly began undoing the buttons on Bruce’s Oxford shirt. “Pepper did this for me once,” he explained. “Just once. So I’m calling this karma, but don’t fucking expect me to do it again.”

Bruce looked as if he were trying to focus, then he lazily batted at Tony’s hands. “ ‘S’good.”

“No, it’s not good,” Tony explained. “You threw up on yourself and pissed your pants. That is no bueno.  And like the great friend I am, I’m stripping you and running the shower over your drunk ass.”

Tony privately apologized to Pepper - and Happy, since Happy had taken Pepper’s place a few times after their split - then rolled Bruce on his stomach to peel off his shirt. “Gross, yuck--ew.” Tony pinched the shirt off Bruce’s body and tried not to touch any soggy sick parts. Bruce made a noise, and Tony rolled him back over to undo his wet corduroys.

Bruce giggled a little and made a move to kiss Tony. “Sorry, I don’t kiss people who smell like upchuck, but I appreciate the offer. Raincheck.” Which was a mixed signal from earlier that afternoon. He roughly tugged down Bruce’s pants. “Fine way to weasel out of our conversation,” he said with a final yank. He was glad Bruce wasn’t wearing any underwear, but it didn’t make things any less awkward.

“Let’s get you to the shower, big guy.” Tony wasn’t that sober himself but he was a hell of a lot better off than Bruce. Still, he felt himself struggling as he tugged the man forward, and Bruce toppled into him. “Shit...let’s go slow. And try not to lean too close to me. You’ve got...dried chunks. In your hair.  And I don’t want that garbage touching me.”

Bruce snorted and blinked as slow as a sloth, and Tony made a face. Damn. He was on his own with this one.

*   *   *

It took a lot longer than Tony thought to get Bruce cleaned up. Fortunately the man had liquid soap so Tony just dumped a bunch of it on the top of Bruce’s head and then squirted his body with it. But Bruce couldn’t stay upright under his own power and Tony ended up doing most of the scrubbing because Bruce kept passing out. Tony had a whole new respect for Pepper and Happy now, but he was determined to rub Bruce’s nose in this little incident for a long, long time.

Bruce ended up vomiting twice more in the shower - disgusting, Tony thought, but surprisingly efficient - and he helped Bruce scrub the sewage-y chunks from his hair (corn? How the hell did Bruce get corn in his _hair_?). Tony absently wondered if he should take him to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, or something. But because Bruce had thrown up so much Tony assumed he would be good - and he’d watch over him for a few hours to make sure he didn’t aspirate or anything.  Everything would be okay.

He hoped.

When they finished in the shower, Tony rubbed Bruce down with a towel, and was grateful at the robe he saw behind the bathroom door. “Okay. Gonna get you dressed now.  As cute as your junk is, I’d prefer it if you could enjoy me ogling it, so I don’t feel like a pervert.”

Bruce grunted at him which might’ve been a good sign. He seemed more responsive, anyway.  He still needed a little help putting on the robe but it was better than before and Tony didn’t have to prop him up as much.

Tony slung one of Bruce’s arms over his shoulder and lead him to his bed.  He pulled back the covers and Bruce tumbled inside, where he instantly fell into a light snore. “Good. Let’s hope you stay down for a while.”

Tony definitely wanted a drink now. He deserved one after that mess, and his ass was getting too sober to deal with nonsense. Bruce would be fine for a few minutes while he returned to the car to grab his whiskey and the rest of Bruce’s drinks.

As Tony lugged the second haul inside he heard his stomach growl. Yeah...he probably needed to do something about that as well. Not exactly great to keep drinking on an empty stomach. Maybe there was leftover pizza from yesterday, or something--wait, no. He shuddered. No. No pizza. Not after smelling throw-up, ugh. Chinese, maybe.

He put up the rest of the booze and fixed himself a whiskey, then brought out his phone. “Hmm.” Pepper had left a message, it seemed. He downed his drink and called her without checking the voicemail.

_"Hey, Tony. Are you still in Virginia?”_

“Will be until late Monday afternoon. My flight’s set for six.” He rummaged around in Bruce’s kitchen and saw a few weird things he wouldn’t eat if his life depended on it, along with a loaf of bread and peanut butter. Well, that looked safe. Tony decided to forego the Chinese food in favor of a peanut butter sandwich. At least for now. He might get something else later, but it was already after seven and he was suddenly starving.  “Why?”

Another pause. He had learned to hate her pauses. _“I wanted to talk to you about the Pierson blueprints.”_ _  
_

“What about them?” He slathered a few tablespoons’ worth of peanut butter on some bread, tossed the spoon into the sink, then bit into a little slice of heaven. Hell, he could be eating spam and it would still taste wonderful. He refilled his whiskey glass and returned his attention to Pepper. “They didn’t like it, or they want changes?”

_“Oh, neither. They loved what you did.”_

“Of course.”

“ _But_ ,” she began, not letting him rest on his own pretentious bullshit, “ _you basically pirated the ‘Jericho’ OS. You made enough changes that I think we’ll be okay with legal, but...Tony, you can’t keep doing that. I’m not even an engineer, and I noticed_.”

“My software, my system, my problem.” He took another bite of his sandwich and downed the whiskey. “What, I can’t pirate off myself?”

“ _Not when the client is asking for something unique, no_.” She sighed. “ _Tony, you’re getting lazy. And sloppy.  I know you have your own projects on the back burner and you have a few great ideas left but I...I can’t help thinking that if you cut a few things from your life you’d be back on your feet--_ ”

“That’s enough, Pepper.” He didn’t get angry with her often, but Pepper normally knew the line and didn’t cross it. It was their break-up argument, nearly verbatim. “No, I do not have a problem. Yes, your precious clients will get their special snowflake systems. Don’t get all butthurt on me because I cut a few corners - they wanted it fast, so that’s what they get when they ask for miracles in days instead of weeks.”

“ _Tony--_ ” She let out a sigh and Tony poured a double and drained his glass. “ _Never mind. Look, just...when you get back, we’ll talk about the Baxter Building account. It’s far more detailed and they’re looking for some serious breakthroughs in green tech. I promised Dr. Richards the best, and he’s counting on that from you_.”

“And he’ll get it.”

_“Good. Because this could make or break us for the next quarter, and--”_

“ _FUCK--_!”

“Oh, shit...”

_“What...what the hell was that, Tony? Tony, where are you?”_

“Um, it’s nothing, just the TV on too loud,” Tony mumbled. Banner was apparently gearing up for another of his blackout rages. And to confirm, the sound of -- the bathroom mirror?-- could be heard shattering. “Look, Pep, I’ve gotta go. Stove boiling over, and stuff.”

_“What--? Stove? What stove?”_

“Stove,” he confirmed, then winced as something wooden or heavy crashed against the wall. “We’ll talk Tuesday morning. Gotta go. Bye.”

He hung up on her and turned off his phone, then winced when he heard the equivalent of punching. Through a _wall_. Tony swallowed and pretty much froze. Did he need to go in there and risk getting punched around like last time, or should he just wait in the living room while Banner trashed his bedroom? Tony calmed down the beast once. How hard could it be a second time--?

“ _HRARR_!”

And then the decision was made for him, when Banner rammed the bedroom door back and glared at Tony with murder in his eyes.  Huffing, snapping, growling, and screaming Banner roared, and lurched for Tony.

“Ah, _fuck_.”


	5. A White, Blank Page (Bruce)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce wakes up, and relationships are tricky.

His lips twisted into a scowl as he reached greater levels of consciousness. Childish laughter leaked from somewhere and it dug into his ears as painfully as nails across a chalkboard. Reminded him of mocking laughter of a schoolyard bully towering over the weak. Him being the weak.

How apt. 

A rasping chuckle threatened to tear apart Bruce’s raw throat.

He had been angry, hurt and ashamed when Tony left so he tore into a fresh bottle, continually self-soothing as he tipped the wine to his lips, fuck-all the consequences. He flew on autopilot and became one of those bobbing drinky birds from his youth; a brainless, mindless, perpetual motion construct. Tip, drink, swallow. Tip, drink, swallow. Tip, drink, swallow. Repeat. Repeat. He didn’t care when the darkness and disgust overtook him because only darkness could stop him - so what did that say about him?

“Hnngh...” 

Bruce held his head when his hangover slammed into his skull, blinding him with the force of a thousand summer suns.

“Hey. Welcome to the land of the living.”

His throat burned as if he’d swallowed tainted glass and he kept his mouth shut. Talking meant moving his jaw, and moving his jaw meant aggravating his aching head. And yet, he was incredibly thirsty, so... 

“Urgh.” 

“Caveman-tier hangover? Nothing but grunts and groans? Been there, my friend. Bottled water and Tylenol are on table next to the trash can. And God, please don’t tell me you need the trash can again. You were fuckin’ Vesuvius, for a while.”

Bruce gripped the bed sheets, making a painful and shaky crawl to reach the water. He got a strong whiff of vomit in the garbage and gagged, but since only bile remained the pain in his throat won over any pharyngeal reflex. Rehydrating himself was a far better option; at least if he got sick it wouldn’t burn as badly coming back up.

He quaffed a few mouthfuls of water and groaned at the sweetness. “Tony--?”

“That’s me,” Tony muttered, and Bruce could see the fuzzy outline of Tony’s back and it looked as if he were playing around with a computer tablet. Tony waved the the tablet in his hands before absently tossing it on Bruce’s bed. The laugh track abruptly stopped. “Y’know, I could make a better tablet than Apple. Cheaper, too.”

Bruce watched him cautiously as his mind slowly cleared; churning anger fought against his shame. He hated how little control he had around Tony and hated more how Tony poked and pushed at his weak places. Only Tony had seen the truth...and Bruce had always kept that part of him fiercely hidden. He hated how honest he had to become around Tony. 

Bruce took wasn’t sure if it was his hangover or not making things so difficult but he did not like how his entire world felt off. But he let the silence linger - he was busy gulping down a liter of water and chastising himself, knowing the water wouldn’t be enough to offset how rotten he felt inside and out. 

“Tylenol,” he finally coughed, “is acetaminophen. Which is highly toxic to the liver when used in conjunction with alcohol. Ergo if you drink, you shouldn’t consume it.” He steadied his elbows and stared at the Tylenol, debating if he felt shitty enough to take it.

“Huh,” Tony grunted. “Didn’t know that. Thanks.”

The water rinsed the muck from Bruce’s head - enough that he could detect that something else was very wrong, and it wasn’t his own darkening pit of humiliation. He should’ve been in his clothes if he passed out last night, not a bathrobe. Not naked in a bathrobe. And--something else. Tony was moving painfully slow. Like some arthritic octogenarian. 

Fuck.

Bruce massaged his neck, then he swallowed and collapsed back into the pillow. “How badly did I hurt you?”

“Bruce--”

“No, Tony. Don’t. Don’t pretend.” He winced and pulled himself up but did a double take when he felt additional pain across his hands; he turned his palms over and glimpsed his raw, split, and scraped knuckles. “Dammit...” He tentatively scooted to the edge of the bed and tilted Tony’s chin to face him. 

Tony rolled his eyes. “I don’t have any bruises on my face or black eyes, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He gently pulled Bruce’s hand away and nodded to his fists. “Your wounds are from punching your own damn walls about a billion times. But I calmed you down after a bit. Again, no big deal.”

But Bruce saw how slowly Tony moved. “All right,” Bruce grunted. “Maybe I didn’t hit you in the face. But don’t sit there and fucking lie to me, and tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

Tony shrugged, favoring his left shoulder, and Bruce sagged against the headboard. “You slammed me into the wall a few times. So what.” Off of Bruce’s silence, Tony gently turned to gauge his expression. “I’m sore, Bruce, not broken. I’ve had worse injuries playing basketball.” 

“That’s...not the point.” He crawled under the covers to ride out his hangover without any medication, hoping if he felt sick enough he’d choke on his vomit. Tony wasn’t the first on the receiving end of his tantrums, but Tony was one of the few who stayed. Who was kind enough to. Tony shared what the others all had in common; they had all been too kind - or too afraid - to do what needed doing, with him. 

“You should’ve called the police on me. Should’ve had me locked up, or something.”

“No.” 

Bruce looked up sharply and narrowed his eyes, but Tony didn’t turn away. “Personally I think you need to cut back on your drinking, Bruce, since the only time I’ve seen your Hyde is after you get blackout drunk. Although reiterating,” Tony said, holding up his palms to appease him, “pot-and-kettle scenario.” He chewed his mustache. “I’ll be honest with you, though. You were in really bad shape yesterday.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened and he flipped his arm over his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault,” he countered. “You started me drinking sooner, and then after we--we....” He swallowed. His stomach rolled and he almost threw up the water.

“Sure,” Tony drawled. “I forced that wine down your gullet and forced you to have sex with me. That was all-l-l me, baby.”

Bruce kept his elbow over his eyes and jutted his chin defiantly. “So you’re saying taking advantage of me when I’m loaded is legit?”

Bruce peeked through the crook of his arm, watching Tony rub the bridge of his nose. “Is that why you almost drank yourself to death? Because you thought I took advantage of you? Fucking hell, Bruce. You came on to me, and I just followed through. And we’re not goddamn teenagers, we’re grown men and it shouldn’t fucking matter if we want to fool around.”

“It matters,” Bruce said quietly.

“Only because you’re upset you fucked a man for the first time and liked it,” Tony spat nastily.

“Fuck you, Tony.” Bruce swallowed and let the silence linger while his temper died. After five minutes Tony angrily grabbed the iPad and fiddled with it, covering more of their silence with the rerun’s laughter.

“And you’re wrong,” Bruce murmured after a time. “You’re fucking wrong. Being with a guy had nothing to do with how I felt.” Tony didn’t turn but the sound on the iPad quieted to a tinny murmur. “I just--” God, he was too sober for this. Too sober and too sick and his tongue was too thick to form words. “I’m not a conquest, okay? I’m not your goddamn notch on a bedpost. Yeah, I was wasted and lonely, and... it’s been awhile. But I don’t--” He sighed. “What you saw last night wasn’t me. That was someone drunk off his ass. That’s why when I feel like drinking beyond a certain point, I make sure I’m alone. It’s--it’s usually safer that way.”

Tony chuckled darkly. “Is your performance over? Because I’m wondering if I should clap at this point.”

“Goddammit! Listen, you motherf--”

“No, you listen,” Tony cut sharply. He launched from the bed and towered over him. Bruce froze as Tony’s angry, stabbing finger cut across his own fury. “Whether you realize it or not, I do give a flying fuck - and I’m not talking about our tumble in bed, which was awesome by the way--” Tony’s voice rose over Bruce’s groan. “But you’re an idiot if you think you were just some piece for the night.” 

Liar, Bruce thought, and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. “That’s such bullshit, Tony. You’re feeding me a line, same line you feed all your toys. I get that, okay? I fucking get what I was to you, and I don’t need you to fucking make it all okay with some half-assed, sugar-coated apology. You can leave any goddamn time you want because I’m fine.”

“Ohh, you stupid, stubborn son of a...” Tony grit his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. He paced before the bed, full of righteous fury. “Banner, tell me what you remember from yesterday. Go on, explain how you got to bed. Why your hair is still a little damp. Why your room is - mostly - put back together. Or how about how your apartment smells like a combination of lysol, ammonia, and limburger. Do you honestly think if you were my fucking fluff of the week that I would’ve dunked you in the shower and cleaned your ass up? Or that I would’ve stayed around to face your monster problem, twice? Fuckin’-A, man. Give me some fucking credit. Jesus.”

Bruce stared at him, finally hearing what happened from the man’s lips even though he remembered very little of it. A few flashes of memory, weak as winter leaves, came when he blinked, and Bruce felt as if he’d been punched in the gut as he drowned in his shame. He suddenly gulped a lungful of air after forgetting to breathe. Tony let him filter what was said and didn’t try to make more of it; the man simply turned away and Bruce shifted to watch Tony’s wracked form take slow, measured breaths. Bruce did find his voice, eventually, but his addled mind had trouble forming words. Or perhaps he really didn’t want to believe anyone could be that kind. Not anymore.

“What?”

“You heard what I said,” Tony said quietly. Rants done, he slumped on the edge of the bed.

“Why?” Bruce grunted. He sat up and squinted and frowned as his thoughts began to churn, and then leaned back on his elbows to take a long, sober look at Tony. “You barely know me, Tony. We met at a conference. We’ve had...a--a what? An encounter? A meeting? A fucked-up, science-themed booty call? What the hell would you call us, and why are you so bent on making something more of it?” He laughed darkly and tilted his head. “Because I tell you, Tony. I have friends, but I’ve never fucked them.” He sighed and sank leadenly into his pillow. Perhaps Tony meant kindness, but Bruce’s didn’t believe in altruism from others and he couldn’t see a reason for it now. “I don’t need a savior, all right? Or a sugar daddy.”

Tony snorted. “Well, good. I don’t want to be either of those things. Can’t say I’ve ever been fitted for a halo.” 

“Then...be honest with me, okay?” Bruce licked his lips anxiously, not wanting to test any of it, but he was a scientist and he had to know. Had to prove the hypotheses. “Are we friends?”

“Um, yeah, I think we established that before we fucked.”

Bruce ignored the sharp quip. “Well, do you expect it to be more than that? Because I’m really not sure where...” he gestured emptily, then let his hand slump. “...where this is headed.”

“Do you have to know?”

He slowly nodded, then realized Tony didn’t see the nod. “I want to, Tony. I want to know, I mean. I can’t...” Sighing, he shoved a hand through his curls, and then gave himself permission to speak the profane. Better to voice it, he figured, than to hide it. “Okay, Tony, yes. I’m attracted to you. No, I don’t like games and yes, I’ve been burned. Pretty fucking badly, thanks for asking. But you better tell me now if you just want to be friends, because I can live with that. What I can’t live with is you saying you want more and then jerking me around. I don’t do ‘friends with benefits’ and there’s no middle ground with me. It’s all or nothing.”

Tony took time to pause, now. After a long beat he scratched the back of his neck and adjusted his posture so he could look Bruce in the eye. His expression was difficult to read, but Bruce could tell he was seriously considering his offer. “I don’t know,” Tony said honestly. “Of course I’m attracted right back, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But fuck, Bruce. We’re coming at this from different ends. You’re talking exclusivity, and that’s way too soon in our so-called--” he held out air quotes, “--'relationship,' as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said after a heavy sigh. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“But.” Tony’s expression sobered and he gnawed his lower lip. Bruce held his breath as Tony measured his words. “It doesn’t mean we can’t explore the idea. I think...I think we can be more than friends. But should we--? That’s different. I’m willing to let you make that decision, if you want. Until then we can be friends. Very good, very platonic friends. Fair?”

Bruce allowed a small smile. “I think I’m comfortable with that.”

“Good.” Tony’s grin twitched a bit. “Y’know, I think this is the first sober conversation I’ve had with you.”

Bruce chuckled, then winced and rubbed his temple. “Meeting at Culver didn’t count?”

“Oh, hell no, I wasn’t sober.” His smile turned wry. “Speaking of. Do you want a little hair of the dog?”

“Oh, God. Yes.”

“Good, ‘cause so do I. Me being sober too long is an accident waiting to happen. Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce was skittish around this new thing they created - whether friendship, or something else, he wasn’t sure and he didn’t like uncertainties. But either Tony had been serious about being just friends, or he chose to tamp down his appetites, since little else happened Saturday besides the riding out of a hangover. The rest of the day was almost...normal. They drank a little but not nearly as much and were only a little tipsy at the hardware store and a little extra tipsy when they patched up the holes he’d apparently made, making the job sloppy and unkempt. Not that Bruce minded, much. 

A bottle later they fell asleep in his bedroom watching bad science fiction on TV and eating Thai food. It was very homey, almost domestic, and Bruce refused to admit it could be a date. 

Sunday morning stung, though, when he slopped a half-glass of chardonnay as a morning pick-me-up and he felt Tony’s eyes on him, judging him. He resented the monitoring, and he knew at least he could put down his glass, unlike Tony. In Bruce’s mind, he really didn’t have a problem. Drunks were like Tony, who couldn’t put down the bottle to save their lives.

He was fine.

It wasn’t his fault when things got worse.


	6. 5b - Enemy Bigger than My Apathy (Bruce cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of last chapter. Questions are qualified and quantified and some reasons become clear.

Something else happened Sunday morning, though, something that brought the same discomfort from Friday, but he found a way to hide it; to shove it down as if it had no meaning as he often did. He put it further out of his mind as they went for breakfast, at a little place Bruce knew about that few visited at 9am on a Sunday. And while they ate their food in companionable silence Bruce responded to Tony’s questions but avoided the man’s eyes. He instead texted Natasha on his phone, skimmed through the free newspaper, and laughed at Tony’s jokes while not directly looking at him. Of course Tony noticed, and when Bruce did catch Tony smile it was less kind and more predatory.

“You know, Banner, it’s natural.”

“Tony.” Bruce hissed through his teeth and ran a hand down his face.

Tony frowned at him and gestured to the mostly consumed food on his plate. “What? I was talking about the bacon. The organic bacon, it’s natural here, according to the menu. What did you think I meant?”

 _You little shit_ , Bruce thought darkly. He barely lifted his eyes but he caught Tony’s eyebrow waggle anyway.

Bruce was searching for a way to respond that wouldn’t make him blush, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Grateful for the interruption he picked it up and began talking without knowing who was on the other line.

“Hello...Oh, wow, hey. I didn’t expect you to call me back.” He unconsciously plowed a hand through his hair. Across the table, Tony took a bite from his omelet; his expression was curious and neutral, but Bruce could almost detect a bit of jealousy there. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Tony’s eyebrow questioned him over his coffee mug, and Bruce decided to let him off the hook as he continued talking. “Sure, Natasha. Monday lunchtime? Yeah, that works. I have a lecture around two, but that’s--oh, okay, sounds good. Bye.”

Bruce chuckled at the phone. He forgot how she hated small talk and she often got to the point a little quicker than others appreciated. He didn’t mind it, though.

“The infamous Dr. Natasha Romanova, eh?” Tony accented the syllables in her name and seductively rolled the ‘R’; Bruce smiled a little but continued playing with his eggs. “Looking forward to meeting her, if she’s got you off your game.”

Bruce chewed his lip to keep from chuckling. So. He wasn’t wrong about the jealousy thing.

“Monday’s a-go, Brucie?”

“Hm? Yeah.” Bruce pinched a corner off of his toast but didn’t look up. He even shifted the food around his plate to pretend he’d eaten more than he had, but he knew Tony was still continuing to watch him. Watch him, and unfortunately worry about him. Last night, after nodding off in front of the TV for the second time, Tony offered to sleep on the futon couch and Bruce had been a little drunk and told him nonsense, he had a king-sized bed so there was room for both of them as long as Tony stayed on his side. Bruce didn’t expect Tony to take him up on it since social etiquette said accepting such an offer after the wildness of Thursday would have been ludicrous. So of course Tony accepted. And honestly, part of Bruce wanted it, he knew that. And really, it wouldn’t have been a problem, except Bruce woke up as the little spoon to Tony’s morning wood. And his own body responded in kind, and Tony noticed how much Bruce liked it...which was the ongoing awkward part.

When it happened Tony beamed like the cad he was, but didn’t say anything. He kept to his word and didn’t push it.

“She has a class to teach at the same time I do, right around 2pm. If we start at noon, will that be enough time?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said. He sat back and slung an arm over the back of his chair. “I have my notes so it won’t take long.”

Tony sniffed and gazed randomly at the people mulling about; the hangover crowd had started lining up for a booth but fortunately no one gave them a second glance. Bruce half expected the paparazzi would be taking pictures of the two of them, but maybe they weren’t keen on visiting college campuses. Which was probably a good thing. He certainly didn’t need his name in the papers - more to protect Culver’s reputation over his own.

“So what’s next on your agenda, Banner?”

Bruce smiled and timidly shoved his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “We haven’t had much time to talk shop. ”

“Ahh,” Tony said, grinning at him. “You have my attention. Go on.”

“Well...that theory you had, back at the conference. I was thinking about it. I think you could increase the output twenty percent if you use a lower reactive metal.”

Tony tossed a few bills on the table, yanked Bruce’s elbow and headed for the door. Bruce barely had time to stumble to his feet before Tony was off at a near run, dragging Bruce with him. “Music to my ears, Dr. Banner. Let’s have science sex.”

* * *

It wasn’t like their pizza night when both were too drunk to eat but it was still one of the oddest Sundays in his known memory; there were no preconceived ideas, no notions, no expectations. Just deep scientific discussion with the mesmerizing lull of a casual soaking; a nice, gentle, controlled binge. The hair of the dog had slowly morphed into a full pelt which wasn’t altogether unwelcome. His body had temporarily rejected the acrid stink of beer and wine, having spent the better part of the weekend violently expelling it, so Tony shared some of his whiskey and Bruce found the sharper, woodsy flavors a pleasant change. He didn’t think he’d like it - he hated the bite of hard liquor on his tongue - but Tony reminded him that he never had the _good_ kind, and had never drunk it properly.

He found with Tony's help he liked it very much.

Bruce lazily sipped at his glass and his tumbler clinked as the ice scurried against the sides. Their science talk had ebbed and Tony opted to watch Bruce’s small color TV to catch up on world events. Though neither of them were really watching anything, it was something to do besides drink. 

“So who’s winning?”

Tony chuckled as a flag went on the field and the refs went crazy. “Hell if I know. I don’t even remember who’s playing.”

“The Jets. And somebody.”

Tony lifted his glass in a toast. “To somebody!”

Bruce grinned and downed his drink. He jiggled the glass in his hands and saluted. “Good stuff, Tony.”

“Told you. But be careful, it sneaks up on you.” Right now, Bruce didn’t even mind how closely Tony had been watching him the remainder of the afternoon. Previously he’d showered and shaved and dressed down in a pair of grey sweats and a white tee, then slept a few more hours after breakfast. Apparently Tony determined Bruce was out of danger and scampered off to his hotel, and then he returned showered and shaved...and lugging his suitcase behind him. Not that Tony had been invited to stay the rest of the weekend, but Bruce didn’t mind. If it had been at another time or with someone else, the sudden protectiveness would have annoyed him. Not so much, today. Not so much now.

“So I wouldn’t get out of that chair too quickly, Bruce.”

“Good to know,” Bruce said slowly, and he hadn’t intended on getting up. Tony rolled from the couch and topped up Bruce’s glass; it was less than the previous amount but he didn’t care. It was almost endearing. “I’m fine, Tony.”

“That you are,” Tony said, and Bruce could practically hear the lascivious grin. “No repeats of yesterday, though. I don’t think my shoulder can take it.”

“It’ll be okay. I’m okay.”

The silence continued for a while, and Bruce wondered if Tony had fallen asleep. He felt close to it himself. But then Tony cleared his throat, and Bruce woke enough to finish off his drink. “Bruce...”

“Hm?”

“You ever put any thought into your...well, I’ll just spit it out. I did some reading while you were out of it.”

“Yeah?” Bruce rose slowly and found the room swaying beneath his feet. He smirked, feeling the truth of Tony’s warning at full strength as he headed for the kitchen. “Whoa. Huh. We should eat somethin’. I can cook...”

“I’m sure you can, but,” Tony said quickly, and he followed, putting a hand on the cabinet Bruce carelessly swung back. “In your condition you’ll burn your apartment down. I’ll order something." 

“I’m not that--”

“You _are_ ,” Tony emphasized and Bruce giggled a gentle ‘fuck off’ before returning to the easy chair. “Just speaking the gospel truth. Plus, I hold my liquor better than you.”

“Whatever.”

Tony ignored him and Bruce shut his eyes a moment. "I meant to say, Brucie, that I did some reading on your little anger problem."

Bruce popped open a bloodshot eye and made a face. "Tony--"

"No, hear me out. Have you investigated sleep disorders?"

Bruce made a half-strangled noise deep in his throat that could’ve passed for a dark laugh. He hadn't wanted to discuss his problem at all, but perhaps it was better to talk about it now than when he was dead sober. "It’s narcolepsy in conjunction with parasomnia," he slurred. “With somniloquy and a possible smidgen of catathrenia, although those doesn’t really count since they're included in the parasomniac branch of disorders.” He lifted an eyebrow and gave Tony the most level glare he could.

“Yes. I’ve looked into it.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Fine, smart guy. You go to therapy for that, or did you diagnose yourself?”

Bruce sighed deeply and fidgeted in his chair. “There’s nothing like what I have, not exactly. They...I went to a few therapists in high school but it wasn’t serious enough to warrant regular visits.”

“Wait...you’ve had this since high school--?”

“Since age eight,” Bruce muttered, and he unsteadily rose to get the whiskey bottle. Tony didn’t stop him as he filled his glass. “The violent rage attacks started after my doctorate, though, and boy was that a hell of a ride.”

He stumbled back a few steps as he tipped his glass to his lips, and Tony helped him return to his chair. “Sit,” he commanded, and he put the bottle back in the cupboard. Bruce shot him a look but Tony took out his phone and began scrolling through it. “There’s a Thai food delivery place not far from here. You like Thai?”

“M-hm. Curry. Any’s good.”

Tony shook his head. “Curry on top of whiskey. Should be an interesting Jackson Pollack.”

“What--?”

“Nothing.” Tony typed a few final things then gave Bruce his full attention. “So you were saying? And no, I don’t mean the curry.”

Bruce scrubbed his cheeks with his palms and frowned. “Where were we in the inquisition?”

“Me wondering if you would’ve been a better Drew Barrymore or Macauley Culkin. You went from milk money to booze money at _eight_?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he pieced together the last figments of their conversation, and he realized what it sounded like. “No, no. Fuck no. I drank after. Later,” he said, swallowing a hiccup. Tony caught the pause but wisely said nothing; Bruce figured he’d wait for the right moment. Seemed as if Tony was exceptionally good at waiting for others to tip their hands. “The whole sleep problem started a lot earlier. It was mostly sleepwalking and night terrors, but those symptoms stopped when I graduated high school. I was an insomniac through college.” His chuckle was rough. “This...this rage reaction is relatively new. Only four or five years long. Or old. Or whatever the fuck. It’s just stupid ass shit I’m used to.”

“Except it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Bruce’s silence was enough of an answer. He let the silence linger and it went on longer and Bruce found himself drifting off, until Tony interrupted. “The stuff I read,” Tony murmured, “said that a lot of sleep disorders come from deeper trauma. Drinking or taking drugs can make those issues worse, or make them surface--”

Bruce snorted.

“--but any sleep problems could be the result of...post traumatic stress. Maybe.”

Bruce’s darkness tugged at him, tugged at the pit he never confronted. Something flashed in his mind but like always it finished in a blink, leaving him grasping at figments. “No,” he said calmly, though he knew Tony wouldn’t believe him. He wasn’t entirely sure himself. Everyone had snatches of memory they couldn’t explain, and Bruce had written his off long ago. “There’s nothing.” He belched softly. Nothing he could grab anyway, nothing he could investigate.

“So...your childhood was fine? No hangups?”

Bruce felt himself getting uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure why. He just knew he didn’t like it. “Fuck, Tony. It wasn’t ideal, but no one’s childhood is Ozzie and Harriet anymore. Just...just fucking _drop_ it, okay?”

“Okay, okay - Jesus, don’t bite my ass off,” Tony rubbed the back of his neck. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re not,” Bruce rumbled.

Tony opened his mouth to say something, and Bruce was glad Tony took the better man approach and let it go.

He and Tony continued to spend the day talking more drunk science, and due to his mood he kept soaking until he was near unintelligible. And he forgot his own cut off time; blew right through it. Worse yet, he passed out and woke up after midnight still in his cups while cursing as he stumbled to the bathroom to throw up. He _never_ drank after six on a Sunday, not even in his worst periods...so perhaps this had been a new low, even for him. 

Tony ended up waking him a few hours later, instinctively reminding him that he had classes to teach at 8 am. Bruce hated being off his schedule because he never ran late anywhere, and that - coupled with a head full of booze cotton - irritated him further and he snapped angrily at Tony. To top it off, because of how he felt, he needed something to get him going or he wouldn’t make any sense in the lecture. Unfortunately that meant he’d have to try and avoid all students, staff, and faculty the entire morning or they’d smell his debauchery. And that was absolutely unacceptable. 

He could never let something like this happen again.

Control. He had to maintain control.

But here was the kicker. The thing hidden in layers beneath the sea of booze and irritation and fluish aches. As he chewed on Tony’s breath mints while the other man kindly, after every nasty thing he’d said that morning, drove him to the front of the physics building. Even in all that. Bruce paused, and finally saw: Tony had been there. He’d seen, and had not been afraid. Tony had...stayed. He cared. And Tony’s reasons were not all selfish, Bruce knew this. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce murmured, turning away shyly after staring too long. His head was like a merciless pounding on a pair of timpani drums but he could deal. 

And it hit him: Tony reminded him that he could have good things, that he didn’t have to be alone. Or lonely. That there was room for someone else in his life after...well. He swallowed and looked down. He needed friends like Tony, true friends. But the black cloud always hung over his head: Would it last? That he did not know.

“You gonna stay in my car all day, or are you gonna teach?”

“I’m going.” But he didn’t move.

Tony snorted and shook his head. “I’m gonna catch up on some Stark Enterprise business and get in touch with Pepper, who’s been screaming at my phone in random text garbles. See you ‘round noon, Banner. Try not to pass out before then.”

“Ass.”

“And a nice piece of one. Get the hell out of my car.”

Bruce smirked softly but finally scooted out as commanded. He said nothing as Tony drove off towards a campus coffee shop, maybe where he could add a bit of whiskey into his tumbler. Something Bruce had already done an hour ago, to his quiet chagrin.

But something else the scientist hadn’t considered was how much they needed each another. The idea intrigued Bruce and he pondered it, weighing the pros and cons of it. Kept the program running in the background as he taught the basic principles of Hooke’s law to a bored freshman class, forty percent of whom were flunking.

The question was there. But the conclusion...Bruce nibbled his lip, pausing in mid sentence until a student reminded him that his hand hovered lost on a chalkboard of random equations. Yes. The conclusion. The conclusion to the equation of friendship’s titration into...what, exactly? 

He sighed. No. The conclusion and the evidence barreling towards it would have to wait until he could survive the overwhelming data. Until then he had classes to teach. Classes that would help him take his mind off of Tony and his unconscionable kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long between updates, and I apologize. Real life interrupted, but I intend on finishing this one. It may be slow going between chapters but my intention is to finish. Keep me honest.


	7. Close My Eyes For a While (Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Natasha's help, Tony's AI project works through its early stages while Tony and Bruce set some ground rules. And even with Pepper's warning, Tony's scheme with Clint Barton backfires.

“No, no, _nyet--_ ”

Tony chuckled as the diminutive woman smashed her fist against the desk with surprising force, displacing everything on Bruce’s messy desk. Bruce, to his credit, did not jump, but his lips did thin a little. Tony figured she just destroyed his chaotic filing system.

Natasha Romanova, a fiery woman with a head of hair to match, reminded Tony of his ex-wife (though to be fair, Pepper was nicer and smidgen more tactful). Romanova’s direct and abrupt approach clashed with Tony’s desire to make the world a fun and interesting place, and he loved watching her get all hot and bothered over him. He could lie and say it didn’t turn him on. Truthfully, it turned him on a lot. 

“Aww, c’mon, Nat,” Tony purred, knowing the moniker would upset her that much more because, well, she seemed the type. “You know it can work. Just because the world says it won’t and just because you think it won’t work doesn’t mean it _can’t_ work. No one’s tried it my way before, sweetheart. Hell,” he murmured coyly, “I’m sure even you could sweet talk me into making it work for you. Or you can feel me up. Y’know. Whichever seems best for you personally.”

The unintelligible garbage that suddenly spewed from Natasha’s lips made Bruce blanch, so it must’ve been bad. _Good thing I don’t speak Russian_ , Tony thought. He bit back a careful smile. He should learn it.

“You think you know everything. But you know as much about linguistics as you know about your dick, which I estimate near this amount.” And she held her thumb and forefinger apart by an inch. Or less.

“Okay, um, _ouch_ ,” Tony retorted. “And uh, maybe I don’t know a lot about linguistics, but I know enough, and I know a lot about computer systems. What I _need_ is a real linguist to show me what I’m missing.”

She folded her arms and viewed him coldly. “A cunning linguist, I’m sure.”

Tony’s smile broadened. “If that’s what it takes, sure.”

Bruce awkwardly cleared his throat and Tony couldn’t help but laugh. Bruce was an easy mark. Way too easy to mess with, and way too easy to make uncomfortable.

“I think what Tony means, Natasha,” Bruce said quietly. “Is that he has the skill to make a general working AI model but not enough skill to adjust to the nuances of language. To make polite conversation, in other words.”

And Tony felt that jab, whether or not Bruce meant to hit that hard. Huh. Maybe he should dial down the tease factor. Or maybe...Tony hazarded a look in Bruce’s direction and caught the telltale glower in the man’s countenance. _Ohhh_...Bruce had a schoolboy crush on the redhead. Mm. Could be interesting. Very, very interesting.

“I don’t think he could make polite conversation if his life depended on it,” Natasha muttered. She threaded her necklace through her fingers, but Tony caught an intriguing glint in her eye. Obviously Natasha liked people who challenged her and made her think on her toes. And Tony always did like sharp redheads. 

“Still, I like your design Mr. Stark, and what you’ve shown has promise. If you want my input I’ll give it, but you have to credit my name to your dissertations and/or research papers.”

“Fine by me.” Tony held up his hands. “And I don't do scholarly. You wanna do the write-ups, feel free. All I want to do is make it work.”

She tilted her head at him, surveying him like a hawk would a juicy mouse, and Tony switched his feet. No, she wasn’t scary. Not in the least. Holy fuckballs, he would hate to be on her bad side. 

“We’ll discuss terms as I see fit,” she continued. “We’ll meet either in person or through Skype once per month, to discuss how we’ll tweak your AI system. I’ll expect weekly reports on what you’re doing, of course. That’s the only way I can give you what you want every month.”

“Of course,” Tony said, planning the exact opposite. One, he was too lazy for that shit. And two, he wanted to see what would happen if she didn’t get her way. He expected fireworks and he loved fireworks. “I don’t expect this to be an overnight thing either, I recognize that. We all have our own shit to do. So little by little we can make headway. But I can give you my notes so far, and where I see this headed. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong, but I’m never wrong. So there’s that.”

Natasha snorted, and finally turned her attention to Bruce who had remained suspiciously quiet throughout their exchange. He also had a funny look on his face, one that Tony hadn’t seen before. And it intrigued him. Mess of contradictions, that one. 

“What rock did you find him under, Bruce? He’s insufferable.”

Bruce shrugged shyly. “What can I say, he grows on you. Like a cyst.”

“Oh, ha, ha.” But Tony didn’t mind. The banter was...cute. Almost too cute. He checked his watch; he had hours before take off but he he’d donate his left nut for a couple martini lunches about now.

Also, he couldn’t pin down how he felt, though running scared came close. Banner was his own man but he had some major issues, and Tony found himself worrying about him too much. So he and Bruce probably needed space to sort themselves out because this _thing_ between them was too real. Too raw. They were too alike in the worst ways and the distance away would do them both good.

 _Sure,_ Tony thought. _Keep telling yourself that._

Yeah, truthfully he was just fucking scared. Only because he married the last person he got this close to, so quickly.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Look, you eggheads need to go back to teaching your little squabs, and I need to hit the road. I’ll keep in touch, but don’t expect regular phone calls or emails ‘cause I don’t do that crap.”

Bruce looked up, almost surprised when Tony turned to leave. Maybe even a little sad. “Ah, yes. I suppose. Um. We can hammer out the details later. Natasha, thanks for helping out.”

She jutted her chin. “Thank me after we’re finished. Until then, I doubt either of you will like me much.”

Tony opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it just as quickly when she challenged him with a single raised eyebrow. He could’ve said something, but he figured it would probably be best if he left with both balls intact.

“I’ll walk you out.” 

Tony blinked at Bruce. Considering their crazy weekend he half-believed Bruce would’ve wanted as little to do with him as possible. “Gonna be interesting, working with that spitfire,” Tony said, talking his way through the sudden awkward pauses of their conversation. “She’s gonna drive me to drink, mark it.”

That elicited a snort from Bruce. “Tony,” he sighed finally. Saying his name quieted Tony’s tongue, but Bruce remained mum until they were back to the rental car. Tony could practically hear the gears churning in the physicist’s mind, trying to form the perfect equation of what to say after a weekend debauch.

“Tony--”

“We had fun, right?” Tony interrupted. He stopped Bruce from saying something rash, something neither of them wanted to hear. “Platonic. Friends. Not a problem, and I won’t bug you unless it’s about the project. It’ll all be above ground. Above the sheets, even. I mean--”

But Bruce surprised him. Meek, gentle Bruce with the hidden anger issues of a screaming Godzilla. The physicist bumped his forehead against Tony’s and softly massaged a spot behind Tony’s neck with a rough thumb. “Thank you,” Bruce murmured. His hot breath tickled Tony’s ear and sent a small shiver through his body. “Thanks for caring, Tony. I’m an ass, a violent ass. But knowing there’s someone out there I can run to at my worst times? That...well. It means more to me than what we did Thursday night. If that makes sense.”

Tony smirked. “Don’t be a sap,” he muttered, but his tone was not unkind. Sighing, he pulled away from Bruce and looked the man over carefully. Bruce looked better than he had all weekend but there was still too much darkness and sadness in those huge doe eyes.

“You need me, you call, okay? Dumb as it sounds I don’t want to lose that big, beautiful mind of yours. Guys like us, crazy, eccentric geniuses who can drink seasoned fratboys under tables are rare breeds. We gotta stick together.”

Bruce shook his head and smirked sadly. “We’re fucking messes.”

Tony shrugged. “Everyone deserves at least one lost weekend every so often, Banner. We needed it. Got to burn off some angst and anger issues.” He shot Bruce a knowing grin. “Bet your incidents will die down. You probably got a full decade’s worth of therapy out of this weekend.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Maybe. Could’ve done without punching holes in walls. Or...people.”

“No. You never punched me. Shoved? So what. Take that as a win.” Tony let the silence linger before continuing. “I don’t intend on shoving you out of my life, either, so don’t think you can get rid of me that easily. Besides, you still owe me big on that hotel mess.”

“God, don’t remind me. I’ll be paying you back through my great grandkids.”

“Nah. I consider our friendship as financial payment. Besides, anyone who can put up with me for more than two minutes without getting paid for it? That, my friend, is an investment worth triple its value in gold.”

Bruce’s face slowly fell. Sighing, he leaned against Tony’s rental, and chose to focus on a spot on the pavement. “So...what now? D’we try keeping this up or do we drift apart, and pretend none of this ever happened?”

“No,” Tony said quietly. “Unless that’s what you want. Personally it’s not what I want.”

“Me either.” Bruce favored him with a pained expression. “I do want to be more than friends. But not yet. I don’t--” He gestured randomly, as if trying to know what to do with his hands, then let them collapse by his sides. “Honestly, I don’t know how.”

Tony pulled a grimace. “Did I ask you to make any sort of decision about that now? No, I did not. So stop worrying about it. What happens, happens, and I’m good with that. I might not be patient but I’ll keep my word. Ask Pepper. On second thought...don’t ask Pepper. Bad idea. Strike that.”

“You’re rambling.”

“Only a little.” Tony rolled back on his heels and dug his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and if he forced it he’d sound as if he were trying too hard. “Yeah, well. Call me in a month or before. Work it out with Natalia--”

“Natasha.”

“Whatever. The Russian Redhead. We’ll ‘Skype,’ or something.” Tony fake-shuddered. “ _Skype_. Seriously. There are better programs out there.”

Bruce’s face softened. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered, voicing the answer to the question in Tony’s mind. “Go. We’ll contact each other in a month.”

“Or less.” And Tony intended on making it less. If nothing else, to make sure Bruce hadn’t drunk himself into a coma some weekend. “See ya, Banner.”

Tony turned sharply and ducked into the car, knowing he had to run. But like Lot’s wife he couldn’t help it and checked behind him. No, he didn’t turn to salt. But he did turn to mush.

 _Great,_ Tony thought, _just great._

He was in a lot of fucking trouble. 

***

“You’re not even listening.”

“Of course I am. I heard that last thing you said.”

“Oh, really. Then repeat it back to me.”

“Pierson account, something about retooling. Yada, yada, yada.”

The long stretch of stoic silence made Tony roll his eyes and stare into the chassis of his 1965 Shelby GT. He bought the car as a wreck but found working on it calmed him and gave him additional focus, other than getting wrecked himself. Biting back a sigh he silently counted to ten before inching the rolling creeper from beneath the car’s underbelly.

“You’re half-right,” Pepper said when he was far enough out to see her face. Her freckles stood out in sharp contrast to her pale skin. Meaning, she was livid. It didn’t help that he hadn’t worked on anything programming related since he’d been back over a day and a half ago. Probably didn’t help that he’d been piss drunk most of yesterday and pretty much impossible to deal with, too.

He gestured at her with his wrench, using irritating, “get to the point” movements. “So? Keep talking, Pep. You’re going to tell me the other half, so don’t leave me hanging.”

“You cocky bastard,” she said softly, but Tony knew better than to mistake her tone for anything other than outright fury. She pulled out a tablet tucked beneath her elbow and tapped it with angry, sharp strokes. “I told you to be careful, Tony. I told you to get your act together, but you keep dicking around.”

“I thought that was what you liked about me,” he retorted with a cold smirk. “My dickish charm.”

“No. What I liked about you was your mind. But that’s half-submerged these days.”

“Pepper.” He sat up wearily, sorry for the whole tired argument. He was not in the mood for this and he was too sober for a fight. Tony scrubbed his cheek with the fist holding the wrench and smeared grease and oil across his chin. “Pierson wants some upgrades. Got it. I’ll work on them this afternoon. What else is wrong?”

“It _is_ this afternoon, and they need to be done by end of day _today,_ ” she said, steadying her voice. When she looked back up her cheeks had returned to their normal, healthy hues. Good, at least he appeased her somewhat. “Within the hour, if you don’t mind. Second.”

She flipped around her tablet and showed him one of the _Enquirer_ ’s sleazier magazine sisters. At least the photo was in black and white, but there was no mistaking his forehead pressed into another man’s, in a rather intimate embrace. Luckily Bruce’s face was mostly hidden, but it wouldn’t take a lot to make it messy, for either of them.

“When were you going to tell me about this?” Tony snorted and reclined against the creeper. He was about to roll back under until Pepper’s four-inch Louboutins stopped his wheels cold. “I’m serious, Tony. PR is scrambling to come up with a story, and our conservative investors are threatening to pull some very lucrative contracts. You couldn’t keep it in your pants just one day?”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Pep,” he growled, and her freckles became more pronounced. “What I do on my own time is my own business, and my business is none of yours.”

“It is when it affects our bottom line.” She let out a slow breath and he swore she must’ve counted to five before removing her foot. He immediately rolled back under the chassis but he wasn’t hiding from her. Nope. “Tony. I consider myself to be pretty liberal. Hell, when Jim and I go out--”

“Jim?” He shot back out. “Jim? Which Jim?”

She glared at him. “I told you we were dating, Tony. Don’t give me that look. I told you weeks ago.”

“Jim? As in James Rhodes? _My_ James Rhodes?”

“Lieutenant Colonel, former military liaison to Stark Industries, and your best friend. Yes. That Jim Rhodes.”

Tony stared at her a beat, then rolled back underneath the car. “I’ll kill him,” he said quietly. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Don’t be such an asshole,” Pepper muttered. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were three sheets when I told you, and not much better when we all went to dinner last month.”

He paused again. Wait, Rhodes had been on leave? They’d had dinner? Why did he not remember that? He should’ve remembered that. It wasn’t something normal people forgot. Tony slammed his crescent wrench into the tool box and grabbed the socket wrench. He nervously pawed for the sockets in the box, attempting to find the right one by feel alone. “Sure, I remember,” he lied. “It’s something I put out of my mind because he groped you all night long. Kind of a shock, y’know?”

“He did no such thing." She sighed heavily and he was glad for the moment that he couldn’t see her face. He saw that same pinched, stricken look whenever he came off a bender. “I know you’re bi, Tony. I’ve always known you were bi. It never mattered to me if you looked at me in a fancy dress the same way you looked at a guy in a well-tailored, Italian sharkskin suit. But everything had been rumor and hearsay in the papers, until now. I just wish you’d told me sooner, so we could’ve prepared something for the press before blood got in the water.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugged and winced when his shoulder banged the muffler. “It was kind of a surprise to me, too. We just sort of fell into things this past weekend. It’s not even a ‘thing’ yet, Pepper.”

“But do you like him?”

“Sure, he’s ridiculously smart, almost on a par with m--”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know.”

She let the pause stretch, and he let it, until the only sound for two long minutes was the ratcheting of the wrench.

“It won’t be an impossible spin,” Pepper finally said. Her voice was still quiet, but mellowed. Cordial. “And there are ways we can minimize the impact as long as we don’t make a huge deal out of it. But, Tony.”

She waited until he stopped. Stopped, and finally peeked out from beneath the belly of his car’s beast to look at her. “You’re going to have to be honest with me on this one,” she told him. “Especially if it becomes less of a ‘thing’ and more of a ‘yes dear.’ And be careful until then, all right? I mean, we don’t even know this guy--”

“His name is Bruce,” Tony confessed. His eyes scanned her carefully. He felt strangely protective of Bruce and wouldn’t tolerate hidden jealousies or criticisms, if she had any. “Well. Dr. Robert Bruce Banner, if we’re going to be precise and use titles.”

“Oh, a doctor.” Pepper almost smiled. Almost. But it wasn’t placating. It was hidden and almost sweet. “You hate doctors.”

“MDs, not PhDs.”

“No, you hate them too. You used to hate the stuffy science set.” She gently cocked her head at him. “You really do like him, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” Tony retreated beneath the Shelby GT. “Maybe he’s just a brain I admire.”

“Mmhm.” She didn’t believe him, but that was okay. He wasn’t sure what he thought about it himself. “Try to keep this one intact and not bring him down to your level.”

He felt vaguely insulted by her quip and it _was_ a little sharp. Even for her. “We’re too much alike for that, Pep. If nothing else,” he snorted ominously, “we’ll take each other down a few notches. Could be good for us.”

“Or dangerous.”

She let the words hover a bit. He knew no matter what he did or told her Pepper would end up researching Bruce’s background. But Bruce was fairly careful, at least as far as he knew; he wasn’t making many waves at Culver anyway. But even Tony knew colleges only released tenured professors after they did something ridiculously heinous to embarrass them.

Like trash a moderately priced hotel room...

Tony tried not to think about that.

“Bruce is fine, Pepper. More than okay. And better than that,” he grunted, using his strength to pull out a stubborn bolt, “he’s discrete. More than me, anyway. If he saw that blurb in the press he’d be mortified. Luckily it doesn’t reveal much of his face.”

“Still. You know how the press is when they smell a story.”

“Just means I’ll have to do something to get them off his scent.”

“Oh, no,” Pepper warned. She hunkered down until she could see his face under the car. “Tony, don’t. Don’t you _dare_. “

He snorted. “Nah. Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to embarrass us.” 

Much.

But he was determined to make sure Bruce kept his cover. And if that meant making an ass out of himself - yet again - so be it.

And unfortunately for Pepper, the opportunity came along two days later and it was gonna sting more than normal. But he figured it matched the going price for freedom and tranquility.

“You want me to do _what_ , now?”

Tony ignored the outburst and spun his beer glass in slow circles, creating slinky-like condensation rings. “You heard me,” Tony growled. “And if you could keep your voice down it’d be appreciated. I like this place, and I’d rather not get thrown out.”

“Hell, Tony. You bought this place six months ago. It’s yours. It’s not like they’ll throw you out any time soon. You could come in here with a bulldozer and two dozen chorus girls and they wouldn’t care.”

“I bought it?” He straightened and looked around with a more practiced eye, taking in the oak bar and expensive wood panelling. “Huh,” he grunted, rearing back and absorbing it all. “How ‘bout that. Yeah, that does sorta look like Grigor’s construction work.” 

“So let me reiterate: What in the ever-loving _fuck_ , Stark?”

Tony grinned. Clint Barton was nothing, if not to the point, which was something Tony appreciated about him. The man was a little fucked in the head but still mostly okay, if you could call an ex-military, black-ops guy who got into acting “on a whim” okay. 

Barton hadn’t intended on becoming an action star, but three tours in Afghanistan ruined him and he just wanted to be a vapid showman from then on to clear his head (his own words, not Tony’s). Honestly Barton didn’t even run in his circles. Tony only knew Barton because Kim, an old ex-girlfriend, practically begged him every day to give her brother an acting job. All Tony did was get Barton a high profile audition; Barton did the rest himself.

But after a few years of direct-to-DVD movies Barton won a few decent acting gigs, and one of his recent movies became the year’s second biggest blockbuster. Impressed with his speed from head case to Hollywood breakout star, Tony invited Barton out for a few drinks and they chilled every once in a while. Barton wasn’t someone Tony would call a close friend, but he’d do in a pinch. And right now he needed that pinch.

Fortunately Barton hit town to renegotiate some contracts. Tony only trusted Barton to consider this gig, though if Barton hadn’t been around he would’ve tried an alternate plan. Probably a really bad one. 

“I know, Barton. It could mess with your Hollywood rep. Such as it is.”

“Hey, now. I happen to be --”

“--a huge fucking deal right now, I know. But weren’t you trying for some meatier parts? Something that didn’t rely on half-baked one-liners and jumping from burning sets? Doing something like this could add to that ‘aura of mystery’ actors surround themselves with.”

“Ye-a-ah,” Barton drawled. He folded his arms and gave Tony the eye. “But I didn’t sign on for a walk-in role in your little production. What you’re asking is a little more than a ‘small' favor. Word gets out, it could kill my career.”

“Nah, it won’t. You’re in Hollywood, man,” Tony said, draining his beer. He motioned the bartender for another. “Your publicist can say you were researching for a part. Or hell, don’t explain it at all, and watch the indie offers come pouring in. Producers eat that controversy shit up.”

Barton made a face and ordered another beer as well. “Just this one time?”

Tony nodded. “Yep. But it’s gotta be near where the paps hang out. Not so close that they sense a set-up, but close enough that they think I’m being careless. I’ll pay you, don’t worry about that.”

“Mm.” Barton grunted and grabbed his beer. His throat bobbed as he drank, and Tony didn’t think he would have any problems putting on a show with Barton. “And...the other stuff? Is it really necessary?”

“Yeah, it is. For authenticity. You’ve got people who can mess with you, right? If not, I know a few.”

“Marion. She owes me a favor. And she’s good, no one will notice.”

“Good. Good.” Tony nodded and realized he’d been served a beer, and it was already half gone. He didn’t remember putting it to his lips. “So meet me at Bluefin’s at 7 or so--”

“No way. I hate fish.”

“They have more than just fish, you moron, but fine. I can always get a table at Melisse.” 

Barton shrugged. “They’re kinda pricey for what you get.”

Tony rolled his eyes at him. “Barton, you can buy their entire dessert cart for all I care, I can afford it. Besides, it’s not like we’re going for the food.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. I will be eating. And you _will_ be paying, Stark.”

“I _said_ I would, didn’t I? Hell, you’re worse than my fucking ex-wife.”

Barton smirked. “Eat it, Stark. If I’m playing this role, it’s being played to the hilt, baby.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “As long as it looks real. Dial it to just under a million, ok?”

“Stark, c’mon. I’m an actor. I can do this. Yeah, I’m yankin’ your chain a little but I know what you want. You’ll get results. Still, I can probably get out of it smellin’ like a rose, but seriously, man. I doubt you’ll be that lucky.”

“I won’t,” Tony said roughly. He finished his beer and stared into the disappearing foam. “But it’ll work out in the end. I’m a tiger who always lands on his feet.”

“You’re a housecat pretending to be a tiger.”

“More or less.” Feeling that things were getting too maudlin and knowing if he stayed much longer he’d just order martinis until his head hit the bar, Tony handed the bartender his Amex and held his hand out to Clint. “Melisse, 7 pm tomorrow.”

Clint nodded and shook Tony’s hand. “We’ve got a deal. See ya, Stark.”

***

Tony couldn’t figure why his palms were slick or why he had to wipe them more than once across his Armani slacks. He had no call to be nervous, he really didn’t. This would work, he kept telling himself. It would work, and Banner would be in the clear. Him, not so much, and Pepper would probably murder him, but that was beside the point.

He checked his watch, counting down the minutes, and rose from the quiet table in the corner when he spied Barton’s approach. Tony fought down a triumphant smirk; whoever that Marion woman Barton knew, well, she was aces. Barton’s hair had been dyed and styled to match Bruce’s coif to the curl, and the makeup would fool anyone who didn’t know Bruce up close. Better yet, Barton made great use of the lecture tapes Tony downloaded. The other man patterned Bruce’s tics down to the slouch. Even found a pair of glasses with identical frames that didn’t quite stay up the bridge of his nose.

“So?” Clint said quietly when he came over. It took a few beats for Tony to respond.

“Uh, really good,” he said, finally gesturing to Clint’s chair. Tony leaned in and scrutinized the man carefully. “Shit, Barton. She did a hell of a job.”

“Like I promised, right?” He broke character for a second and his grin was a little too much Barton, too little Banner. But seconds later he hunched forward, imprinting the suspicion in people’s minds. It wasn’t perfect mimicry, and from a foot or two off those who knew Bruce would know it wasn’t the real deal. But the restaurant’s darkness cloaked them and their out-of-the-way table helped maintain the illusion...although Tony made sure anyone with a discrete cell phone could get an eyeful.

“I took the liberty of ordering champagne,” Tony said, pointing to an ice bucket and Clint opened his mouth to holler something (snark, probably) when their waiter came over. Clint went into Bruce-mode pretty quickly and Tony couldn’t help swallowing when his memory recalled his breakfast with Bruce.

Which was _just_ a few days ago...hell, this was insane. How could a few days tear him up so badly? And he knew he’d only get worse, not better; he knew himself that well.

They ordered - Tony didn’t even remember what he ordered - but the champagne ran out before they ate their first course. Not thinking Tony asked for whiskey and, since the place knew him a little too well, they kept refilling his glass before he asked. So it wasn’t long before he was feeling it. Clint got into the spirit too, again maybe too well, and had three or four glasses of wine along with the champagne. But Clint was holding up, and Tony could see that he drank more water to compensate for having a normal liver. Fuck, Barton looked more and more like Bruce as the night wore on. He must’ve been a superspy in a former life, or something.

“So this girl,” Tony was explaining, “she actually came up to me and wanted me to sign her ass. She was crazy, seriously. Didn’t it make it any better when she ripped one in my face, either.”

Barton couldn’t help laughing his own way, not Bruce’s, which shattered the illusion a little and forced Tony to return to his right mind. Tony missed Bruce and with all the alcohol and the conversation and Barton emulating Bruce’s little tics, it almost felt as if Tony never left Virginia and this was an actual dinner date with Bruce. He grimaced sadly. The ploy coupled with a drink-addled mind had worked, for a time. 

The corner of Tony’s lip tipped again. He was probably drunk enough to fast-forward to the next bit without feeling like a prized ass.

Tony shot Barton a shallow smirk. “They had dinner. Time to give ‘em the show.”

Barton’s lip quivered, just enough that it reminded him of Bruce again. Tony closed his eyes, imagining Bruce before him, willing it. Immediately a calloused thumb brushed across his hand, reminiscent of test tubes and radioactivity, and he opened his eyes. Tony’s vision swam and he knew, absolutely fucking knew Bruce was before him. But alcohol was a hilarious mistress and the mirage only lasted a second before Barton’s East Coast drawl destroyed it. “Your move, billionaire.”

Luckily the servers had cleared their table and left them alone - well, it was a romantic place, after all, and Tony had a rep to uphold. He leaned forward, covering half the length of their small table, and Barton covered the rest until their foreheads touched. Tony took the other man’s hand and kissed it softly. No one would mistake the encounter.

Barton’s soft kiss on his lips came next but Tony felt something in it; whether he wanted more or whether he was getting in the mood he moved his hand to cup the back of Barton’s head, and allowed himself to deepen the kiss.

“Careful, tiger,” Barton warned quietly. “I’m not the one you want, remember?”

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. He softly strummed Barton’s left ear. “I know.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Barton said. “I’m straight, I’m sorry. If I weren’t--”

“If you weren’t, I’d feel shittier than I already do,” Tony mumbled. He kissed Barton’s cheek in thanks and sat back down, but kept Barton’s hand cupped in his. “Anyone looking this way?”

“A few,” Barton said. Barton always knew everything going on around him at all times. “I heard a few camera phones, too. You’d think people would be more discrete in fancy restaurants.” 

“Naw. The rich are the worst. They like gossip first hand, rather than reading it in the papers.” 

“Speaking of. You know we’re gonna headline the _Star_ tomorrow. Hope your friend will understand.”

Tony grimaced and stared at his whiskey glass; the ice cubes had long since melted and diluted the drink, but he finished it anyway.

“Doubtful,” Tony retorted. A slight slur in his voice betrayed the amount he’d drunk. “But I didn’t do it to make him jealous.” That’s what Barton assumed, of course, but Tony didn’t tell him the whole truth and he didn’t need to know his reasons for it. 

“I’ll cross that bridge when it happens.”

***

Three days. Three days of yelling from Pepper, of magazines and newspapers running scandals on his “mystery male” and one smaller magazine that came up with the right report, that Tony dined with “movie icon” (Tony laughed at that title) Clint Barton, in disguise at Melisse. That’s all Tony wanted, though, to out Clint as his guy. They’d all assume the first magazine featured Clint under cover, and hopefully no one would scrutinize the location too closely. Otherwise, they might start digging for Bruce again and Tony really didn’t want that.

Clint danced around reporters like a master showman and endured a few weeks of controversy before another “troubled” star took his place. Barton’s publicist handled the situation so well it would’ve given Pepper a run for her money and after a few weeks Clint admitted to everything with a shrug, saying it wasn’t a big deal, and the story seemed less of a story and more of a “something Clint Barton would do” prank.

But that wasn’t the case for Stark Enterprises.

Their stock price dropped twelve percent. Concerned investors feared losses through the following quarter and demanded Tony’s head on a pike. They called him every name in the book, and Pepper had the not-so enviable task of finding conservative replacements for the investors in renegotiations. Pepper would find a way to appease them, she always did. And the event did pave the way for a diversity feature in one of the papers - hell, even George Takei had something positive to say, so at least the nerd set were on their side. 

But the board of directors put Tony on thin ice. Some of the board, some whom he remembered voting for, watched Tony like a hawk now. They didn’t like it when he stepped down as CEO, hated it when Pepper took over, and got seriously pissed when they shifted from military contracts to clean energy. One more scandal and they might decide to buy him out.

Hell with them, though. They’d get over it, as long as he kept making them money. They wouldn’t kill their golden goose, after all.

Tony sighed. Late Thursday morning, while still in the eye of the storm, he cradled his cell absently in his hands and tossed back another double (his Third? Fourth? _Didn’t matter_ ). The liquid courage approach wasn’t doing him any favors but it couldn’t make him feel any worse at this point. According to his phone Bruce called twice, once in the middle of the night and a second time later that week, but didn’t leave any messages. Tony grabbed his phone several times during the days following but his thumb kept hovering above the call back icon, without touching it. He wasn’t sure what he was so afraid of; surely Bruce wouldn’t be mad once he explained. Hopefully Bruce didn’t believe he was being replaced...but maybe that’s what scared Tony, that Bruce might consider it.

“Fuck it,” Tony said, and he hit call back. He’d been toying with the phone for the past hour. Time to rip off the band-aid.

At first he wasn’t sure if Bruce would even answer his phone. Tony had considered sending Bruce a real phone, an actual smartphone, because right now what Bruce used was about a decade behind the times and it took ten minutes to send a one-sentence text. But Tony was probably on tentative ground with the guy, especially since they hadn’t talked in ten days. Oh, and he pulled that stunt. Which was probably the reason Bruce called but didn’t leave messages.

Bruce’s phone rang three, four times and Tony grimaced. Right, Bruce was probably teaching. But what if Bruce _erased_ his number, and--

_“H’llo.”_

Tony paused, feeling his mouth go dry. “Hey, Bruce. It’s me.”

He heard a drawn out, tired sigh. _“Yeah. I know. I’ve got Caller ID.”_

Bruce’s voice sounded heavy but he didn’t sound mad, exactly. He sounded exhausted and frustrated for sure, and...

Tony frowned. “I thought you said you didn’t drink on weekdays, Bruce.”

 _“Flu,”_ Bruce mumbled. _“Sick days. I got ‘em, never use ‘em, so I got the flu.”_

Which sounded exactly like an excuse he used during a bad bender, when Pepper tried to manipulate him with tempting, unfinished projects. “You gotta snap out of it, man. I know it looks bad, but I can explain--”

Bruce snorted bullishly into the phone. _“I don’t care who you’re fucking, Tony,”_ he slurred. But it was obvious Bruce did care. Obvious he felt hurt, even though his feelings were completely misplaced. _“I saw, okay? I saw the guy on the magazine cover. That why you were interested in me? ‘Cause...’cause I looked like your fuck buddy?”_

Oh, shit-- 

“No, Bruce, no - you’ve got it all wrong. I did that to _protect_ you.”

“Protect--?” Bruce barked a laugh and Tony heard the distinct clink of a bottle hitting a glass, followed by a slosh of liquid. _“Yeah, I feel so fucking protected right now. Hell, we didn’t make any promises. I get it. But I told you I wouldn’t be your ‘friends with benefits.’ An’ I sure as hell’m not someone’s replacement. You had a fight with this guy, or what? That the reason for our hookup?”_

Tony pulled a face and shook his head. Bruce was too far gone, and he wouldn’t understand even if he explained it to him in the simplest terms. “We’re gonna have to talk later, big guy, when you’re in the mood to listen. Right now I don’t think you’ll get it.”

 _“There’s nothing to get,”_ Bruce said coldly. His words were clipped and sharp. Almost sober. _“I’ll help you with your AI. I promised, and I--I admit your work keeps me interested. But nothing else, Tony. Don’t call me, don’t contact me...not unless it’s business. I can’t--”_ Bruce’s voice broke as he snuffled into the receiver. _“I can’t handle that."_

“Bruce, wait--”

 _“Bye, Tony.”_

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but his phone ended the call for him. He cursed silently and sat back in his chair, trying to think of something - anything - that would get Bruce to talk to him. He didn’t want to mess it up but it ended up going south anyway.

He spat out another curse. “Here’s to me,” he muttered, saluting himself with his glass. “Wow. Can I fuck up, or can I _fuck up_?”

He clung to hope, that he’d hash it out with Bruce later. But Tony didn’t count on Bruce’s stubbornness - the man was ten times more stubborn than a bull elephant, and just as hard to budge. Tony’s subsequent emails went unanswered, his phone calls and texts ignored. Even when he wrote out the entire truth, line by goddamn line - and he did not write long emails for anyone, not even Pepper - Bruce still ignored him.

It took a month and a half before Bruce thawed enough to talk to him about something other than the AI project. And by that time Tony was fucking done and ready to move on because he had a life to live and pining like some pimpled high school kid did him no favors.


	8. Weep Little Lion Man (Bruce)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Natasha come to individual conclusions, and Bruce loses it.

Three days after Tony left he found his mind and, subsequently, his heart unexpectedly receptive. Tony had infected Bruce inside and out, looping his mind ad infinitum with dreams and promises, bringing with it the conclusion that real love existed for him if he could only find the key to his locked mind. 

And that scared him.

Even his students noticed something odd and off about him. He didn’t often epitomize the stereotypical scatterbrained professor, but Bruce downright froze in one senior lecture and accidentally attributed a Bohr quote to Brahe in another. One of his students caught the gaffe and his cheeks burned when she corrected him. At least the embarrassment kept him from going further off the rails. But he detested the idea of appearing inept. His weekends were bad enough. 

At the end of the day of the Bohr/Brahe catastrophe, Natasha found him. Usually their class schedules didn’t sync as he taught the afternoon and morning courses (damn freshmen lectures) and she taught her upperclassmen in the early evening. Her appearance, though, was a pleasant surprise.

“Bruce, wait up, I’ll walk with you.”

He stopped in his tracks and lifted an eyebrow as she rushed over to him. “You’re going home?” He asked, concerned. He checked his watch with a small frown. “Don’t you have a class in forty-five minutes?”

She smiled, but he caught something hidden in her smile, something dark and false. “I do. But I wanted to catch you before you left. We haven’t really had the opportunity to talk, since Monday.”

Bruce anxiously switched his briefcase from one hand to another. “I thought you made it clear. Once a month, maybe? Via Skype?”

“Yes, that should be fine.” She paused, and Bruce’s stomach dropped, but she threaded her arm through his and kept walking. “I’ll follow you to your car.”

“O-okay,” Bruce stuttered. This was getting weird, mostly because Natasha rejected huggy-feely things. On the other hand, her protectiveness warmed him and it wasn’t because the days had gotten chillier and her cuddling helped stave off the sudden cold. He should’ve worn an overcoat; he hadn’t checked the weather report before leaving.

Bruce shook his head to clear it. “No, no. I didn’t drive today. I live close enough that sometimes I’ll walk, so following me to my car today would be pointless, I’m afraid.”

Natasha smiled. “Then I’ll walk with you to the end of the quad.” 

Walking in tandem with her long strides comforted him but didn’t completely dissolve his apprehension. “Tell me,” she finally asked. “What intrigues you about Stark? Besides the obvious, of course.”

“Besides his genius, you mean?” Bruce hazarded a look in her direction and shrugged. “I don’t know. He has this whole...joie de vivre, bon vivant routine that’s kind of interesting to watch.”

“And join.”

He winced and nibbled his lip. “I suppose,” Bruce trailed. “But he’s just...who he is. And it’s not like I really know the man, Natasha. I met him at that science conference and we’ve communicated a little via email and text before he came down here last week.” 

He frowned solemnly at her and gave a nervous little chuckle. “Why? Is there something I should know?”

“Maybe,” she sighed. “Maybe not. It depends, but I’d hate to see you hurt. That’s all.”

A shadow crossed his features. “What do you mean?”

The wan smile she threw him made him shudder, but she gave him an unexpected peck on the cheek to compensate. “There. As promised, we’re at the end of the quad. Let’s have lunch tomorrow, Bruce. There’s a new Asian fusion place that’s opened near the student union, and I’ve been dying to try it.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said absently. He watched her a few moments more (and no, he did not admire the curve of her hips as she left, definitely not, no) before heading home. Things were strange lately and he did not like strange. Fortunately he had lessons to grade, so that would ease his disquiet, for a time.

* * *

Bruce rarely watched TV, apart from PBS or movie rentals. He didn’t have cable on principle - he didn’t need two hundred plus channels telling him that the world and everything in it sucked. He knew that. And besides, the channels he hoped would be good, like the Science channel or National Geographic, contained meager programming that pandered to the masses. If he was going to pay for TV, he might as well invest in PBS. At least they hadn’t exchanged the truth for a quick buck.

He rolled up his sleeves and took the remote with him to the kitchen, where he could cut vegetables while listening to the news. Chicken stir fry sounded decent, and he had a few leftovers he could add to it to make it filling enough. It would work for a quick meal. Then, maybe...he allowed a small quirk to pink his lips. Yeah. Maybe he should call Tony. To see if he made it back in one piece, and all, of course.

He pointed the clicker at the small screen and grabbed the wok from the bottom cabinets. He toed the refrigerator door to snatch onions, fresh broccoli, and snow peas, then grabbed the cutting board and his sharpest knife.

_“...freedom fighters of the Ukraine. In financial news, stocks were down a quarter percent in part due to the latest controversy surrounding Stark Enterprises--”_

“Eh?” Bruce looked up briefly, but wasn’t paying much attention as he rinsed the broccoli and began chopping the florets. 

_“CEO Virginia Potts offered little by way of comment, but ensured investors that the ‘personal judgments of their company’s founders had no bearing on the commitment and integrity Stark Enterprises held in furthering clean energy initiatives.’ Anthony E. Stark, former CEO of Stark Enterprises could not immediately be reached for comment.”_

“Hm,” Bruce muttered, frowning. “Tony. What the hell did you do this time?”

Bruce shook his head, determined to ignore the whole scenario until after he’d eaten - Tony could fight his own battles. Still...curiosity nipped at his semiconscious. He kind of wanted to know what Tony had done. Maybe he couldn’t change anything, but he could offer moral support.

* * *

Bruce had eaten half his meal and had scanned the first few pages of a student’s research paper when the TV blasted Tony’s name again. Sighing, Bruce had faith PBS wouldn’t broadcast tawdry gossip since they still believed in the integrity of the news for news sake, as far as he knew. So knowing it wouldn’t matter if he muddled through the muck now or later, he turned from PBS to the local stations.

He bowed his head and told himself he would listen and grade papers. He wouldn’t need to see Tony’s faux pas.

_“In financial news, the controversial photos of inventor and former CEO of Stark Enterprises Anthony E. Stark with an unknown male companion circulated newsstands, causing company stock to plummet overnight. Stark, who is often known for his antics on and off the financial grid did not comment, although Stark’s ex-wife and current CEO of Stark Enterprises, Virginia “Pepper” Potts, gave a statement to appease anxious investors.”_

Bruce’s fork clattered across the tabletop. 

_Unknown male companion?_ Pictures? Were they talking about _him_? Bruce ran a shaky hand across his forehead. The show already cut to commercial and he missed it, missed them broadcasting the photos. He didn’t think...they’d been careful, hadn’t they? But he couldn’t remember... 

_Shit._

He leaped from his small breakfast table and yelped when he caught his knee on a corner edge. Spitting curses he paced his apartment, wondering if it would be worth it to race down to the corner market to buy the paper or a magazine. He didn’t have to buy one, per se, not really, he just had to browse and casually survey the pictures and maybe it wasn’t him but _oh God_ what if it was--

“Breathe, Bruce,” he scolded, and he held two fingers against the racing pulse in his wrist as he paced. “We just had the one night. They wouldn’t know anything else. They couldn’t know.” Or did they? Did photographers catch pictures of Tony leaving his apartment? Of them together in bed--? 

Bruce hurriedly shut off the TV and grabbed his coat. Magazines. He needed magazines. If it was as big as they say, there would be photos everywhere, and he needed to prepare for the worst.

He hated driving, especially in the evening when his eyesight wavered from the glare of automobile lights. The closest bookstore was a mile away and he could’ve walked it, but he didn’t trust himself. In his mood he’d absolutely bypass the bookstore and head for the nearest bar, and that would be a really, really bad idea.

Bruce white-knuckled it all the way to the bookstore, fiercely gripping his steering wheel until the worn foam and rubber disintegrated under his calloused palms. His tires squealed to a stop when he hit the parking lot but he kept staring at the storefront, unblinking, as his car continued to run. He could be wrong. It could be nothing, absolutely nothing. He hadn’t received any phone messages or texts from Erik, or even Phil Coulson, so it might not be anything.

But then his thoughts drifted to Natasha, and her uncomfortable mannerisms around him; she knew. A warning, had to be. She _knew_ \--

“Hell with it,” he muttered, and he jumped from his car, slammed his door, and scrambled inside. 

***

“Anything I can help you with this evening?”

Bruce startled at the voice near his ear. “No, ah, sorry. I was looking--” he made a face. “I’m looking for the rumor magazines. My...daughter wants the latest gossip, but I don’t know...”

The clerk waved randomly at a sea of magazines. “Say no more,” he said. “I have a teen at home. I can’t stand all that gossip crap, but my daughter claims it helps her keep up with the latest ‘news.’

“Back here,” he said, waving Bruce around a corner. “I keep the bulk of ‘em on this side.”

“Right, thanks,” Bruce muttered. He followed the man, whom Bruce guessed to be his age, or a bit younger. Maybe he owned the bookstore.

“Here you go. All the rumors a heart could desire.”

Bruce grunted. “There are...a lot here.”

The man smirked and ran a hand through his greying hair. “You’d be surprised how fast they go. Right now, everyone’s buying up the latest _Star._ They broke some sort of story this week.” Bruce swallowed as the bookseller looked at him funny. “You look a little familiar to me. Have we met before?”

“No,” Bruce said quickly. 

“Sorry. It’s just...ah, never mind. Anyway. Take your time. And if you have any questions feel free to ask. Trust me, I know all about this stuff. Wish I didn’t.”

When the clerk left Bruce let out a nervous breath. The clerk’s recognition of his face could be further proof of his image plastering the magazines. 

Hands shaking, Bruce thumbed through the racks, rifling through the stacked rows. Too many of the magazines bragged about other things, but he only cared about the one article. Something was there, something had to be there. Natasha wouldn’t act that way. Nor would a total stranger--

Bruce’s fingers hovered over a well-read, dog-eared copy of the latest _Star Magazine._ Someone had taken pains to hide it in the back, perhaps in an effort to get to it later. It was the only one left on the racks but the front page showed Bruce more than he wanted to know.

“Damn,” he murmured. He pulled out the magazine with trembling hands and traced the picture on the cover. It could’ve been him, from far away. Looked very similar. It showed Tony and someone who, for all intents and purposes, could’ve doubled as Bruce’s younger brother. At some romantic, intimate restaurant, it seemed like. Tony pulled the man close, his hand cupped the other person’s neck, their lips pressed--

And it wasn’t him.

Bruce couldn’t tell if the picture made him feel better, or worse.

He blinked at the page for a few minutes, staring without seeing. Part of him reeled from shock, but his ugly rational side crowed in triumph. _See_? It spat. _You didn’t listen. He was just playing you. You were his rebound. He doesn’t care--_

He bit off the broken record with a sharp growl and forced himself to leaf through the magazine, perhaps as a means of penance for being so naive, or punishment for being so broken. He nodded casually at the photos and drew it all in, all white hot and burning. It hurt, God it fucking hurt, but not from betrayal. He deserved to see it full on to know, truly _know_ how stupid he was. How he should’ve never let down his guard. Why should he expect anything more? Someone like him? Tony liked _him_? A _monster_? 

_Don’t be so fucking naive, Bruce._

Bruce didn’t need to read any more. The pictures of Tony in the restaurant kissing and obviously smitten were enough.

Snorting darkly, he delicately placed the magazine back on the rack and headed for the front.

“Not going to purchase it?”

“Hm?” Bruce turned, remembering again that he had an audience. “No, no. I think I’ve seen enough. My daughter doesn’t need that garbage clouding her judgment.”

“Fair enough. Have a good evening.”

Bruce waved and meandered back to his car.

***

He didn’t remember getting home. He turned on the television and its white noise seared his brain, becoming a low, dull buzz blanketing conscious thought. He reminded himself between bursts of static, that he and Tony just met. He had no claims and he had no right to stake one. The two of them mimicked flames of phosphorus, magnesium bright, ending as quickly as they began. Nothing more.

The pit in Bruce’s gut shifted sharply, causing him to wince at its insistence. He could bury the hurt but only for so long; the pain ached like blows raining down on bruised flesh. Bruce’s emotions bubbled up, reaching critical mass, and no. He could. Not. Take. One more. Disappointment. 

Someone laughed. Bruce blinked and the television swam back into focus, breaking his thoughts, and a horse-faced host shoved a microphone into an analyst’s face. They discussed Tony. Fast-forward fifteen minutes and another host asked about Tony’s antics. And Bruce changed the channel but it didn’t matter. Different interviewers played the same report over and over and it burned deep - so deep that the image of Tony kissing this other man became a permanent etching, searing his brain’s CRT.

He might dream about it. 

Bruce mauled his knuckles, rubbing them red and raw, but he continued staring at the TV as fresh punishment. He grunted; his stomach felt on fire. So he toyed with an idea, wrestled with it - and in the end decided. Faced with how he felt, his twisted emotions were far worse than the alternative.

He scrambled to the cabinet and drummed his fingers against the door. He had a choice but opportunity and responsibility warred in his psyche, as he ran the gamut of pros and cons. But in the end he made the only sane choice. Tony left his whiskey and there was a lot of booze left: Restocked wine, beer, whiskey. Tony’s. Bruce scanned it critically and committed to the pain, hitting the rawest nerve. He grabbed Tony’s whiskey, unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle. The liquor burned, purified, and sanctified. Blurred the lies and lines between reality and fantasy.

He kept drinking until it was gone. Until he could no longer taste it. Kept drinking until he couldn’t feel or think.

***

Somewhere in his hind brain, sometime after midnight, he called the service and left a message for Selvig that he wouldn’t be in that day, that he would need a replacement. He wondered if any of his words made sense but a concocted story of the flu could make any slurring seem a result from sickness. Bruce stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, hating even in his drunk state how blatantly he lied to protect his secrets. It had been easier to simply omit things. No one visited him on weekends, they expected he was busy writing new physics theorems, that he had a second job working for NASA, or whatnot. He let everyone believe what they wanted.

But it was getting dangerous, now. Too dangerous.

Bruce wiped the vomit from his lips with a palsied hand and lay against the porcelain, willing it to cool his forehead. He did feel feverish, as if he did have the flu, but that was a result of from drinking; he always took precautions against the flu. 

He blinked, wondering if he’d passed out again, somehow turning the seconds to minutes, to hours. His head cleared but he was far from sober. Still so inebriated that a renewed hatred for Tony sprung up, somewhere deep, choosing to fester and coil into a hard, compact, radioactive element. Bruce swayed to his feet and stumbled about, searching for his cellphone, and he laughed darkly when he rescued it from a pile of tossed blankets (since when had he become so messy?).

He dialed but a cold wash of sobriety hit him, and he shut the receiver before he heard the first ring. No. He couldn’t give Tony the satisfaction. Wouldn’t. Refused to. He could handle it himself. 

***

An insistent knocking woke Bruce from darkness. He didn’t know what time it was, couldn’t remember the day. He opened a bleary eye and frowned at the...wrongness. He fumbled around for his glasses in his blurry world but the world was...wrong. Chaotic. Imprecise.

Cruel.

“Yeah,” Bruce croaked. He was in no condition to answer a door, but he needed human contact right now. He knew that much. 

When he found his glasses and put them on, his stomach lurched. Yeah. It was bad. Really bad.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself. He’d had an incident, his worst yet. Broken glass, shattered picture frames, student’s papers turned to confetti, his favorite books shredded...surrounding him in a sea of waste. And apparently he’d taken scissors or a knife to his mattress or something, because grey and white mattress stuffing patterned his floor like cumulonimbus clouds. Technically he wasn’t even on a mattress any more; he lay on coils and ticking, little else. His physical bed...well. He wasn’t sure if he owned an axe, but it sure looked like he found one, considering the state of his physical bed.

On top of that he was naked. 

Of course he was. 

The knocking returned.

“Coming,” Bruce spat, and he didn’t mean for it to sound sharp, but there it was. He swallowed and moved slowly, extremely slowly. His body ached in ways he didn’t expect it to, and he had a feeling his hangover wasn’t the only reason. He must’ve fallen or hit something. He scraped his hands against the carpet and winced; his knuckles were a bloody mess.

_“Bruce...? Bruce, are you okay?”_

His stomach knotted. How did Natasha know where he lived? “Uh...wait, a sec,” he said, louder. Fortunately his apartment was small enough that even the pitch of his voice, cracked and raw from drinking and/or screaming, could carry to the door.

A wave of panic hit him. Hell, what could he tell her? She couldn’t see this.

Bruce slowly shuffled through his bedroom, searching for his robe and slippers. Or pants. Or anything. Fortunately he hadn’t destroyed all his clothes, so that was some small comfort. He ran a hand over his stubbled chin and blinked, surprised at his beard’s thickness. How long had he been out? He remembered...sort of remembered stages, drinking for days. Maybe talking with Tony, unless that was a dream.

Finding his robe was easier than getting out, though. He carefully created a pathway with his feet, suddenly glad for slippers to avoid sharp objects, but it took a few tries to push open his bedroom door. Then, when he finally burst through, he realized why it had been so difficult.

“Damn.”

A long sigh tumbled from Bruce’s lips. His couch, his chairs, lamps, bookcases, dishes, bottles...nothing survived. The room was knee-deep with garbage. He waded his way through. So _many_ broken bottles...But picking through gave him time to consider a cover story - burglary, maybe? Angry ex-girlfriend? Student vandalism? He could think of a few things, but he hated lying; omission was so much easier.

He snorted, looking at the space where his TV had been. Plastic crumbles and glass and wires hinted that he’d upended it and smashed to bits (probably broke that first, he figured).

“One second,” he said calmly. He pushed towards the door, then counted to ten. “It’s...ah. It’s a little rough in here,” he murmured before sliding back the lock and opening the door. “Had a bit of an accident.”

Natasha had something in her hands, and it smelled like food. His stomach rumbled; he wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last. He expected her to turn and run and never come back. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he deadpanned.

She glanced once at the nuclear destruction, then shifted her scowl to him. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said simply, then she kicked her way into the kitchen to find some unbroken plates and flatware.

*** 

Sixty black trash bags, two gauze wraps for his hands and one spoken sentence between them later, Bruce collapsed on his bare floor. They had eaten lunch in silence (actually, Natasha had given him one command, “eat,” and he obeyed), and then he returned to his room and put on a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His jeans hung too loosely around his hips; probably a good thing Natasha came with food when she did.

Bruce fully intended to clean up on his own but Natasha grabbed a large roll of black trash bags from somewhere under his sink, forcing him to dutifully pick through the mess and pile everything that would fit into them. They ended up using all of the bags and his humor, which had steadily darkened over the years, made him say clean up would’ve gone a lot faster with a snow shovel. 

He sighed, staring at his patchwork leather couch, now hanging together with grey duct tape, twine, and little else. Couldn’t do much for the bigger pieces of furniture, but he’d done a pretty good job turning the bigger stuff into kindling. Furniture too big to break somehow got scissored and/or knifed, and Bruce was damn glad no one else had been in the room when he had his psychotic snap.

“Thanks, Natasha.” He could murmur that much when they finished. He ran a tired hand over his mouth and stared at the ceiling. He listened to her gentle breaths in conjunction with his for a few minutes before trying to talk again.

“So, ah. What day is...”

“Saturday.”

“Oh. How long was I--”

“Twelve days.”

“Ah.” He swallowed. That was bad. Pinnacle, for him. Or nadir, maybe. “Sorry I made you worry.”

“Looks like I had just cause.” A small breath exited her lips, almost a sigh. She found a place near him on the floor and lay next to him and their elbows almost touched. He glanced briefly over and noticed her hands busily fingering the locket on her necklace, but he quickly stared back at the ceiling. 

“Have you checked your phone messages?”

Bruce slowly shook his head. “No.” 

“Selvig is furious. As is Coulson.”

Bruce rubbed his eyes with his thumbs. “Do I still have a job?”

“Barely. I think Phil and Erik are willing to let you go on your sabbatical early, if you can keep it together until the end of the term.”

Bruce winced. Natasha wasn’t pulling any punches. “Go, tenure,” he joked, but she didn’t find him funny. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t die from alcohol poisoning.”

Bruce shyly nodded and let his eyes linger on a stain on the floor. Natasha didn’t know all his secrets, but he’d revealed enough; easily a third of the trash they’d tossed contained empty alcohol bottles. And the stale taint of booze permeated his pores like a skunk bath. 

“Tasha, seriously. This...this isn’t me, not usually. I don’t know what happened.”

She pierced him with a glower, as if sensing the lie. “You fell apart,” she snapped, then she drew herself up so she was no longer beside him. She rolled up, like a cat, and he suddenly wanted to run his fingers through her curtain of cascading red hair. 

She briefly touched her locket. “You fell apart, because you’re in love with Stark.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, but then he realized maybe he was, a little. He didn’t really believe in love at first sight.

“It happens,” she continued, “but don’t be a child about it. If you want him, stop being so stupidly self-destructive and ask him. Or else you’ll lose him.”

“He likes someone else,” Bruce blurted. His cheeks flamed as she favored him with a tired eyebrow. “That’s what the papers said.”

She scowled, unblinking, at his front window. “And you believe everything the newspapers say?”

Bruce opened his mouth then shut it softly. “I...there were photos.”

“So? I caught you two in the parking lot. I didn’t see the paparazzi but they follow Tony Stark everywhere. So it was only a matter of time before someone took incriminating photos of you two.”

He shook his head. “No, that wasn’t me. I wasn’t at that restaurant.”

“I know,” she said. Her gaze softened and she ran a finger across his bearded cheek, forcing him to turn to her. “The restaurant pictures were after you and Tony parted. Maybe you have it backwards, Bruce. Maybe there was another picture of you and him somewhere but because he cared for your privacy, he created an elaborate plan to protect you.”

_Protect_...Bruce pursed his lips. _Tony_. Tony said something about protecting him, hadn’t he? Or was that another dream? “Maybe.” He didn’t want to consider it. Every part of him was still too raw to believe and his emotional walls had already begun to rebuild.

“If you’d seen pictures of the actor Stark was with, sans makeup, you’d know he looks nothing like you.”

That got his attention. Bruce squinted and calculated the odds of Natasha lying to him, but he couldn’t detected any ill intent. He held her expression a beat longer than intended, then lowered his eyes with a sigh. “Regardless. Once...was enough. You see this? I can’t afford to snap again. Literally.” He laughed darkly. “I don’t even have a fucking bed anymore, Natasha.”

He ran a shaky hand over his brow. “It’s better for both of us if we keep it cordial and just discuss his AI. It...our friendship, such as it is, doesn’t need to go beyond that.”

She muttered something in Russian. He knew just enough of her dialect to laugh, which earned him a dangerous glare. “Sorry,” he apologized. “You’re right, I _am_ a coward.” He picked at dirt beneath his nails. “It’s easier that way. No one gets hurt but me.”

Natasha didn’t say anything. Instead, she pulled out a pink letter from her purse. “This was on your door.” He took it from her and began reading but Natasha told him what it said anyway. “Your landlord wants you out in 45 days.”

***

_“Where the hell is Banner?”_

“Not here.” 

Bruce fidgeted beyond the webcam’s eye. Tasha snorted at him before they set up but he stubbornly sat out of view, choosing to observe the Skype meeting without interacting with Tony. Natasha sent an invite to Stark, who actually showed on time. And of course Tony wanted him since he hadn’t contacted or returned any of his messages. 

Bruce nervously tapped the tip of his pen cap against his teeth and ducked his head. He’d take notes and email Tony about it later. Tony would yell, of course, but Bruce could handle long distance yelling.

Still. It didn’t help when his pulse quickened after hearing Tony’s voice. He had to dig in his heels and remain steadfast. Even when...he sighed silently. Even when he didn’t want to.

_“Goddammit, I know he’s in there with you. He wouldn’t miss this meeting, I know him well enough.”_

“Maybe not as well as you think, Stark,” Natasha said. The curve of her back stiffened as she reared for a fight. “Clock’s ticking. Do you want to talk about your project, or not?”

Tony hurled invectives at her but to Natasha’s credit she barely batted an eye. Eventually Tony calmed down and he started from where they left off last. Natasha relaxed and even Bruce found himself easing into the companionable rhythm of the conversation. He convinced himself he could concentrate on what was said over who was saying it. It almost worked, most of the time. But he wasn’t 100% in it. His mind drifted because his heart kept clenching.

Fifty-seven minutes later they wrapped up. Tony, to his credit, had been immersed in the discussion, throwing ideas back and forth to see if they’d stick, while Natasha let her guard slip, just a little. “Again, it’s the situation of syntax versus semantics, Tony,” she said. “How will you get--what did you call it, again?”

_“JARVIS. It’ll be an acronym for something later, but for now I think it’s kinda catchy.”_

“JARVIS. How will you get JARVIS to respond to the complexities of language? If it’s a learning AI, voice commands won’t be enough - you’ll have to train it to distinguish rudimentary linguistic concepts, and even native speakers disagree on various vocal cues. Machines imitate, not communicate. How do you expect to program communication?”

_“With time and practice,”_ Tony snapped. Bruce heard the irritation in his voice. _“Nat, let’s just put something in there and see what happens. Help me coordinate the basics, and I’ll run a self-learning subroutine. If we throw a little Meow Mix in there, JARVIS will purr."_

Natasha held up her hands. “Insufferable. Robots can’t answer the meaningful questions of life, Tony, and you can’t program humor into them.”

_“Yet,”_ he threatened. _“Fine, whatever. Never mind. I think we’re done here, Nat. Just...go put Bruce on, and we’ll call it quits.”_

Her pause confirmed Bruce’s presence, as Tony predicted. Natasha’s eyes flickered over and Bruce’s stomach clenched; this was it, she forced his hand, he had to face Tony now. His heart hammered in his chest as he lumbered into the webcam’s frame. He’d hoped the days removed from their time together would’ve helped but it didn’t, it made it worse. The butterflies in his stomach leaped to his throat when he saw Tony’s face.

He cleared his throat a few times before attempting to speak. “Tony,” he said, indirectly addressing the camera. He was grateful his voice didn’t quiver. Briefly taking in Tony’s countenance, Bruce noticed the harsh blushes dotting the man’s cheeks and nose, evidence that Tony had been imbibing more than normal - if that were even possible.

_“You’re looking too thin, Banner. You should eat more.”_

Bruce looked down and away, towards Natasha. “I think we should table the language discussion until I get a crack at JARVIS’ schematics. I may be able to--”

_“Really? You’re gonna play this game?”_

Bruce switched his feet and fidgeted with the frames of his glasses, settling them more comfortably over his nose and cheekbones. “I...I’m here because of my expertise and my willingness to help and discuss your AI research. But don’t expect anything else, Tony.” 

Tony scraped his teeth across his bottom lip. _“Go read your emails every once in a while, Bruce. Or read text messages. You know, get into the modern age with the rest of us. You wanna keep on like this? Fine. Do whatever the hell you want.”_

The screen went black as Tony disconnected. “Children,” Natasha muttered, and she whirled on Bruce. He stared at his shoes, staring anywhere but in her eyes.

“You have to face him sometime, Bruce.”

“That counted,” Bruce spat. He ran a shaky hand across the back of his neck. “God, I need a drink.”

She surveyed him cautiously. “Are you serious?”

His anger flared, but she met the heat in his eyes and he backed down. “I haven’t touched a drop since I destroyed my apartment, Natasha. It’s been over a week, I deserve one. Especially after talking with Tony, that’s stressful enough.”

“How’s apartment hunting going, by the way?” She deliberately changed topics on him. “Any leads?”

Bruce made a face. He knew how lucky he was in that regard. His landlord, Ellie, had taken a shine to him when he first signed the lease, believing a professor in the building would keep the remaining student tenants in line; turns out he was worse than the students. Still, Ellie felt bad for kicking him out so she gave him more grace than the standard two weeks or month, or whatever.

“Not really. It’s near the end of Fall term, and students will head home soon. Something’ll open up and I’ll find a cheap place for a while.” His lips curved in a small bow. “ ‘Course, if you have room at your place, I could--”

“ _Nyet,_ ” Natasha thundered.

Bruce held up his hands, surprised by the heat in her voice. “No, no, I was only joking. Sorry...I think Tony’s humor rubbed off on me. I didn’t seriously mean it.” He noticed that she touched her necklace, the necklace she always wore with the locket he never asked about. 

“Tasha? I’m sorry I--”

“No, it’s all right,” she murmured, but it took her a while to compose herself. Longer than it usually took. “Okay.”

“Okay--?”

“Okay. I’ll have a drink with you.”

***

Too long, he thought, feeling the familiar goofiness of a good, long soak. The merry-go-round dizziness put a stupid grin on his face - he’d wasted too much time drinking alone and he needed a drinking partner. Kept him less maudlin. Bruce let a giggle slip from his lips and bumped Natasha’s shoulder. 

“Bruce,” she cautioned.

“Sorry, I’m pretty hammered. You wanna...wanna come to my place for a nightcap?”

She helped him back to his apartment, but his legs felt heavy. He wanted to lean against her, but she was upset for some stupid reason and she kept pushing him off. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you? Especially since you have to teach tomorrow?”

His random gesture swung wide, nearly clipping her nose. “Whoops. Sorry. I’m teachin’ late. It’s...what day’s it tomorrow? Wednesday?”

“Wednesday,” she confirmed. “Still, Selvig and Coulson--”

“Ah, screw ‘em,” he muttered. He tripped up the stoop to his door and Natasha grabbed his arm before he fell. “Oops.”

Natasha swore quietly. “Dammit. I should’ve never...” She muttered something to herself, then curled a lick of her hair behind one ear. “Bruce, look. I can come in for a second. For _one_ drink. Promise me, though, if I come in with you that you won’t drink anything else for the rest of the night.”

“Pffthp. Killjoy.” She threw an angry glare his way, and he wrinkled his nose at her. “Okay, okay. One.” He waggled a finger in her face. “But you’re missin’ out.”

“I had enough at the bar. Keys,” she said, holding out her palm.

Bruce exaggerated his sigh and ruthlessly dug into his pockets for his keys, then slapped them into her palm. “I can open my own door.”

“I doubt you can see the keyhole,” she growled, and he laughed when she bent down to jam the key into the lock. His eyes lingered on her ass - she really was...well-built. 

“Stop it, Bruce.”

“What...what? I’m not d--”

She swung open the door and shoved him in. He tripped but he caught his balance before faceplanting. The laughter bubbling from his lips proved he didn’t give a damn. 

“You were ogling my ass.”

“‘C’mon, Tash,” he said between snorts. “I’m human.”

“Not anymore,” she muttered. She watched as Bruce bobbed and weaved his way to the kitchen.

“I promised you one drink. I meant it, ‘kay?”

“Okay, fine. Just...” She trailed off and a kernel of anger mounted in Bruce as he grabbed two glasses.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to go out,” he blamed. He crammed a glass in her hand and she gripped it softly. He pawed for something in the cabinet and settled on whiskey. He’d liked Tony’s whiskey, and decided to keep it a regular thing for special occasions. 

He took the bottle and unceremoniously opened it. “If you didn’t wanna go out drinkin’ you should’ve said so.”

He began dumping alcohol in her glass without watching, and it sloshed over her fingers. “Bruce--! That’s enough. That’s...too much.”

“Huh. Sorry. Here.” He gave her the empty glass and took the full one, and downed what he’d poured in two quick gulps. “You can pour what you want,” he muttered before thrusting the bottle at her.

Natasha swore softly in Russian and returned the bottle to the cabinet without pouring a drink for herself. She kept her back to Bruce, steadying herself. “It was wrong of me to ask and wrong of me to tempt you. And I hate having my suspicions confirmed.”

Bruce hummed at her. ”Two wrongs don’t make a right,” he sing-songed, which had nothing to do what she said or meant. He half-shut his eyes and lay his head against a wall, favoring her with a crooked smile as the planet whirled around him. “Hey, I got an idea. Wanna make out?”

She hauled off and hit him.

“ _Goddammit_! What the hell, Natasha!”

“That’s for making me care.” He cradled his left eye as she shoved past, but instead of leaving she paced his bare apartment. “Dammit, Bruce. I’m _married_.”

Despite the amount of alcohol in his system and the creeping pain along cheek he froze. “You...you’re what?”

“You heard me,” she whispered. The silence continued, drawing out until she came to herself. “Brian. His name is Brian.”

“You...a ring ,” he stuttered, suddenly feeling too sober. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“He drank too,” she continued quietly, as if Bruce weren’t even in the room. “I couldn’t save him, and I wanted...” Natasha sighed heavily. “He’s missing, and I haven’t seen him in years. He was on leave and went out for drinks with his army buddies one night and never came home and he always came home. Always. But not that time.”

She waited until Bruce looked her way. “I keep my wedding ring in my locket as a reminder. Brian Braddock was - _is_ \- a kind and gentle man, Bruce, but he was a drunk, and his drinking probably killed him despite how much I love...” She swallowed as the truth overcame her. “Loved him.”

Bruce looked down at his empty glass, his throbbing cheek temporarily forgotten. Why was she telling him this?

“You need help.” He winced as she brushed her thumb across his cheek. “But I’m not strong enough.”

He said nothing. Natasha went to his front door and her fingers paused on the knob. She flashed him a sad smile. “Besides. You love Tony. And you two...” Her lip quivered as she held the smile too long. “Maybe you can rescue each other, _da_?”

Bruce thought about what he wanted to say after she’d left, but it didn’t seem important now. He blinked at nothing and shuffled off to sleep on his destroyed couch - he’d get more furniture after he moved. But he didn’t want to think about what she said. Any of it. Luckily his intoxication enshrouded him, and he didn’t need to think.


End file.
